


A Thing of Dreams

by ConsultingOtter (FourCornersHolmes)



Series: AO3 FB Challenge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AO3 FB Challenge, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Awesome Molly Hooper, BAMF John Watson, Big Brother Mycroft, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade is a bloody SAINT, Hoopson, Hurt Sherlock, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is a Saint, John Watson's Blog, John earned that nickname, John is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, John owns Speedy's, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnovan?, Jolly - Freeform, M/M, Multiple Partners, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, No Mary Morstan, Not Canon Compliant, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Partner Swapping, Partners to Lovers, Platonic Kissing, Platonic Relationships, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02, Romantic Friendship, Sally Donovan is Nice, Season 03 DOES NOT HAPPEN, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, What is the Sally/John ship?, a little bit, honestly when is he NOT BAMF?, mystrade, pairing tags to change as story develops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-03 00:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13329912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/ConsultingOtter
Summary: John Watson has moved on with his life after Sherlock Holmes jumped from Saint Bart's, but he hasn't moved out of Baker Street. And he has never forgotten. This is the story of what happens when Sherlock comes back into his life.My humble submission to the AO3 FB  fic challenge.





	1. Blog Entry for 31 March, 2014: Alone With My Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> No Series 03, no Series 04, no Mary, no Rosie. I haven't decided if I'm going to use any of the S4 villains or not, or even if I'm going to use Magnussen. I don't see how I could, since his whole thing was Mary. But, maybe I'll use (MAYBE being the operative word) Eurus or Culverton Smith, if I'm feeling adventurous.  
> ::  
> This was inspired by the following prompt I found in a prompt-book called "Complete The Story": "Even though I know I wiped down the tables the previous night, I wipe them down again in the morning before opening up. It’s my favorite part of the day. I have my reasons, you see, for wanting each day to be its own clean slate." This is where it took me. Hope you like it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little introspection and a glimpse into the mind of a lonely, grieving man just making his way in life best as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I free-styled the blog-entry, mostly because I'm too lazy to go look at how it really looks. But I think it gets the idea across? I hope it does.  
> ::  
> FYI: In this fic, Sherlock jumped/"died" on May 4, which is recognised canonically as the day Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty tussled on the infamous Reichenbach Falls and fell into infamy. Some people call it "Reichenbach Falls Day". Sherlock jumped on 4 May 2011, he comes back from the dead almost exactly three years later on 4 May 2014. John owns and has run The Blue Scarf & Belstaff since 2012.

* * *

**Alone With My Thoughts**

 

**Even though I know I wiped down the tables the previous night, I wipe them down again in the morning before opening up. It’s my favourite part of the day. I have my reasons, you see, for wanting each day to be its own clean slate. I opened the café two years ago after Mister Chatterjee decided to sell the place next door to my flat on Baker Street. When I learned he was selling, I decided to buy the place and turn it into something new. After closing it for a couple of months to redecorate and rebrand, I reopened Speedy’s as The Blue Scarf & Belstaff. A little coffee-shop with tables, a fireplace and two armchairs for reading, and pastries provided by my landlady and, occasionally, my old flatmate’s brother. If someone had told me back in 2010 that Mycroft Holmes, of all people, could bake like a pro, I probably would have laughed at them. With baked goods taken care of by two very capable if unlikely people, I taught myself the ins and outs of making coffee no fewer than ten ways. I had always been rather good at making tea and could manage a decent cup of coffee, but learning new ways of doing it kept me busy. Still does, fancy that.**

**Most of my customers are old fans of the blog and a small army of believers who didn’t for a minute buy the schill being spread by the media before and after the suicide of Sherlock Holmes.**

 

**It has been a long time since that terrible May day, but some part of me wants to believe that Sherlock Holmes is alive somewhere, biding his time and waiting for the coast to clear so he can come home again. Some people think I should be furious with him, and for a while I was. I was absolutely beside myself that for reasons unknown to me, I wasn’t trustworthy enough. I may seem a simple man, and that’s how I like it, but never make the mistake of thinking I’m either stupid or ordinary. I am neither of those. I know a dead body when I see one, ta, and I’d be an idiot’s uncle if I thought Sherlock was _actually_ dead. I never saw the body after a brief identification, I don’t know what happened to it. But I do know that the body I saw on the pavement was not a dead one. Knock me over with a bicycle to buy yourself time, that’s fine, but don’t think I’ll be so out of it to notice the blood-splatter was wrong. Which it was. Somewhere in this big, crazy, mad world, Sherlock Holmes is alive. So, this is a small plea to a ghost: Come home, Sherlock. Please. Just come home. There will be shouting and carrying on, but at least you’ll be with me. Please come home.**

 

**Oh, and Happy Birthday to me, I guess. **

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm offering this as my entry to the "AO3 FB" fic challenge. I picked this up in my Archive of Our Own (AO3) Writers FB group. Just lovely people there! I'm a writer, so here's what my end of the bargain includes:  
> Write a fic including any/all of the following words:  
> "Three"  
> "Years"  
> "Group"  
> "Birthday" and/or "anniversary"  
> "Celebration"  
> No word limit is required.
> 
> I'm fairly certain I've used each word at least once. Some have been used more frequently, I'm sure. I'll mark the first usage of the prompt-words by underlining them.


	2. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John braces himself for a typical, potentially unpleasant day of remembrance, and gets a reminder that nothing is set in stone and miracles are possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The challenge was to write a fic including any/all of the following words:  
> "Three"  
> "Years"  
> "Group"  
> "Birthday" and/or "anniversary"  
> "Celebration"

* * *

As the calendar crept towards the 4th of May, John Watson found himself fighting a familiar battle. Every year since 2011, he had anticipated the 4th with a sense of deep dread. It marked a terrible, heartbreaking day for him. But this year, there was something different. The dread and grief weren’t as bad and he was almost…hopeful. When John opened the café for business on the anniversary day, he wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary and yet suspected anything that _was_ wouldn’t surprise him at all. He served his morning-rush regulars and a couple of new faces, mostly tourists passing through, and settled into the familiar routine. It was noon before anything interesting happened, when Mycroft Holmes made an appearance. John knew he was in on business and sighed, wiping his hands on the rag tied to his apron.

“Mycroft.”

“Doctor Watson.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Can you step away? I find myself in need of medical expertise and you are one of the finest.”

“I can step away, sure.” He nodded, “Where are we going?”

“The airport.”

“Are _we_ going anywhere?”

“No.”

“Right. Give me a minute.” he timed himself out and hung his apron, calling for Mrs Hudson.

 “Where are you going, dear?”

“One of the airports, I think. I’ll be in touch!” he ran out the door, waving over his shoulder. Mycroft had already collected his kit, so all he had to do was get in the waiting car.

 

As they set off from Baker Street, John double-checked his kit. Everything looked in order, having been restocked just last week.

“So, what’s this about?” He gave Mycroft a stern look. If this wasn’t about Sherlock, he would be very surprised.

“One of my…agents has been extracted from a dangerous situation and could use some friendly care.”

“Uh-huh.” John ruffled his hair, “Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“Why would I…”

“Because it’s what you _do_. I don’t know why Sherlock didn’t think he could trust me, but that’s not my problem.” John looked out the window, “I know he’s alive Mycroft. Is he the one who needs help?”

“Yes.”

“How bad is it?”

“It could be far worse, we were…fortunate.”

“What happened?”

“The Serbians tried to get answers out of him, but he left a trail of clues for us.”

“And you found him before it got too bad?”

“That’s my hope.” Mycroft looked very tired and rather aged. John sighed and leaned across the car, carefully taking Mycroft’s wrist in hand.

“Jesus. You idiot.” John muttered, digging through his kit to find what he needed. He handed the small bottle to Mycroft, “You’ll take one of those at bedtime. Call me in the morning.”

“What is this?”

“A sleep-aid. Take it by ten. If I have to call Anthea, I’ll call Anthea, but you will take that and you will sleep tonight.”

“Yes, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft pocketed the bottle and looked out the window. Five minutes later, they stopped. The driver opened the door for John, who slid out with his bag over one shoulder, and he looked around. The private jet sat nearby, the stairs guarded by a couple of Mycroft’s people. With a distracted nod, John ran up the stairs and quietly stepped into the cabin. John found Sherlock and stifled a soft sound. He was alive, in rough shape, but it was definitely Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft came up the boarding stairs behind him and John looked over his shoulder.

“My god. Is he asleep?”

“Yes, Doctor Watson. You can wake him up if you’d like, I doubt he would mind.”

“Jesus. What happened?” John gripped the strap of his kit tightly and stepped away from the hatch, hardly daring to breathe. It was obvious Sherlock had seen some rough action, but most of the bruising was quite old and he couldn’t see any obvious wounds. Kneeling by Sherlock’s seat, he carefully reached out and touched two fingers to the underside of his friend’s wrist. He hadn’t been able to do this last time, and the stable but thready pulse that beat against his fingertips was both heartbreaking and gratifying. John felt a heavy pressure under his sternum and closed his eyes. He was going to cry if he didn’t get himself under control. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of crying, Lord knew he’d done enough of _that_ while Sherlock had been out of his life, he just didn’t think this was the best place to have a break-down. Without thinking, John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s hand before putting his head down on the man’s thigh and doing his damn best to stay calm.

“John?” Oh, that voice. That gorgeous, fantastic, beautiful voice. John shook his head a little and did not move. “Are you crying?”

“Nope. Won’t let myself.” He was surprised at how _steady_ his voice was, “I knew you were alive, I knew it all along.”

“And you never…”

“Why would I?” He looked up, “Sherlock, your safety and mine depended on people believing you were dead. And there were times during the years that I was afraid you really were dead. Playing dumb wasn’t that hard.” John shrugged off his bag and set it aside as Sherlock slid from his seat and joined him on the floor, taking it slow and stifling a wince.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting out of my seat.”

“That wasn’t my question, idiot.” John put an arm carefully around his friend, “Are you okay? Can you get up?”

“Not…right away.”

“If we’re going to do this, I’m taking you home. Where were you?”

“Germany.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John let the taller man settle against him, let him get comfortable, “Can I take you home? Please?”

“Where?”

“Where do you think?”

“Baker Street?” Sherlock raised his head and looked at John, his eyes glassy and a little blood-shot.

“Baker Street. 221B Baker Street.” John smiled and got carefully to his feet, “Come on.” He helped Sherlock stand and picked up his bag, putting it over his shoulder. They left the plane and he went down the boarding-stairs first, Sherlock behind him with one hand on his shoulder for balance. At the bottom, he let Sherlock get his bearings and looked up at Mycroft, who stood in the hatch.

“Take him home, Doctor Watson, by whatever means you see fit.”

“Where are _you_ going?”

“I have business in Washington, D.C.”

“How long are you gone?”

“A week, minimum.”

“Safe travels. Take the Sominex now and sleep during the flight. You’ll have time.” John smiled and guided Sherlock towards the terminal building. After squaring away Sherlock’s credentials, they walked to Connaught Road where they were able to hail a taxi. As he slid in after Sherlock, John set his bag down and closed the door, “221 Baker Street, please.”

“Sir.” The cabbie touched his cap and got underway. It was a quiet drive, and Sherlock fell asleep along the way, leaning on John’s shoulder. John smiled and got comfortable.

“Let me know when we get there.”

“Yes, sir.” The cabbie looked at them in the mirror but said nothing. John didn’t sleep, but he did doze off until the slowing of the car alerted him. Glancing out the window, he saw that they were on Baker Street and smiled. Sitting up, he nudged Sherlock.

“Hey, wake up. We’re home.” He pushed the door open and got out, “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

“That was fast.”

“You slept the whole trip.” He smiled and helped Sherlock out of the taxi, “Hang on a mo.” He handed the cabbie double the fare and leaned against the window. “Thanks for the ride. Keep it all, and don’t ever mention who we are to anyone.”

“You got it, sir. Have a good afternoon!”

“You, too.” He sighed and stood back as the cab pulled away. With his bag over his shoulder and Sherlock hanging onto his sleeve, John dug out his keys and got the door of 221B open.

“Did you just bribe a cabbie, John?”

“You bet I did. For your sake, son. Come on.” He held the door open, “Let’s get you upstairs.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock stepped through the door, then hesitated having noticed the new signage and awning at the café next door, “Oh, wait. Hang on, what happened to Speedy’s?”

“Mister Chatterjee sold it in 2012.”

“He _did_? Why?”

“Retirement, I think.” John leaned against the door-frame, “I think he’s living with his daughter in Hastings.”

“Oh. But why did the name change?”

“Because I wanted it to.” John held out one hand, “I own the café now, Sherlock, have for two years. It’s kept me busy.”

“ _You_ own the café?”

“Mhm. Come on, you.” He pulled Sherlock into the house and hustled him upstairs, “I bought it from Chatterjee, closed it down for a couple of months to make some changes, and reopened the place as The Blue Scarf and Belstaff. Most of my customers are fans of the blog, occasionally I’ll get The Met when they’re in the area. I see Greg a couple times a week.”

“He’s still with The Met?”

“Yeah, he is. Was out of work for three months while they worked things out on that end, but as soon as his leave was up he went back. Took a demotion to sergeant and worked a desk for a couple of months, but they were nicer about it than they could have been.”

“He’s not _still_ a sergeant, is he?”

“Nah.” John chuckled and got Sherlock into the flat, “He was promoted pretty quick after things settled down. I think your brother had a bit to do with that, not that anyone’s talking about it.”

“Why would Mycroft care about someone like Lestrade?”

“Because it was our faults he got into trouble in the first place. Your brother probably figured it was a good way to make things right to make sure Greg was promoted in a timely fashion.” John smiled and took Sherlock’s coat, hanging it beside his own as he set his kit on the coffee-table, “Sit down, I need a look at you before I go back to work and _you_ go to bed.” Sherlock just nodded and John helped him remove his shirt when it got difficult. Mycroft had said that they were “just in time” in Serbia, and John could tell.

“How long were you in Germany?”

“Two months.”

“That’s why you’re in better shape than you should be.” John was glad to notice there were only a few scars, and none disfiguring. Sherlock had always been a vain bastard, and he didn’t want that to change. Getting Sherlock up, he headed for the upstairs bedroom. A dose of diphenhydramine taken with a glass of milk would do the trick to put Sherlock to sleep, and it was a work of moments to get him showered and into pyjamas.

-&- 

By the time he got back to the café, it had been two hours. John had gotten into the habit of carrying an infant-monitor with him when Sherlock was sleeping like this and had the unit clipped to his belt with an earpiece feeding audio. If Sherlock woke up or had any trouble sleeping, he would know. Clocking back in, he tied on his apron and got back to work. Mrs Hudson looked at him a little funny, she knew something was up but not what. After finishing a rush, she cornered him and demanded answers.

“I know your typical response to Mycroft Holmes is somewhere in the unmentionables, but you followed him this time. What was different?”

“It was personal this time.” He leaned against the store-room shelves. “ _Very_ personal this time.”

“Not to mention, I haven’t seen _that_ thing in years!” She pointed to the monitor clipped to his belt, “Why are you wearing it again?” John peered out to make sure no one had come in and turned to his landlady.

“Missus Hudson, what I’m about to tell you is highly confidential and nothing short of a bloody state secret.” He looked her dead in the eye, “You can’t tell _anyone_ , not even Mrs Turner. You cannot, absolutely under no circumstances can you tell anyone.”

“I can keep a secret or two, young man.” Mrs Hudson smiled at him, her expression smoothing into concern very quickly, “You’re happy, but you’re not. What’s up?”

“Sherlock Holmes is alive. He’s home, and he’s asleep upstairs in 221B. I have no idea what Mycroft’s plans for his come-back are, that Holmes idiot is on his way to Washington, D.C., on business. All that matters is that _my_ Holmes idiot is…”

“Oh! He’s alive! He’s home!” Her face just lit up. “Oh, John, that’s fantastic news! Upstairs?”

“Sound asleep by now, considering how quiet it is up there.” John smiled and accepted an enthusiastic hug from Mrs Hudson, “You just can’t tell anyone, no matter how badly you want to.”

“No no no! I know how important this is! How did you _know_?”

“Can’t fool an Army doctor.” He chuckled, leaving the store-room as the bell above the door sounded, “Not to mention, I know what kind blood-spatter there should be from a four-storey fall like that. There were pieces missing that day, Mrs Hudson, but I figure it out quick enough. Never let on I knew otherwise, it wasn’t safe for any of us.” He squeezed her hand and took over the register.

“Well, _there_ you are! Taking a smoke-break or something, John?”

“Greg! Hi!” John smiled at the DI who’d always been one of his best friends and a damn good drinking-buddy, “Your usual?”

“Yeah. God knows I could use all the caffeine I can get my hands on today.” Greg Lestrade leaned against the counter, “What’s doing? Place is kind of quiet, but there’s an energy I haven’t seen in a while.”

“Hmm?” John refocused from making some deductions about Greg. He said he needed all the caffeine he could get, and his clothes were at least two or three days worn, still clean enough but definitely showing signs of wear. He had been making do with wipe-downs and “whore baths” since there was neither time nor access to a real shower. He could have taken one at The Met, but that was a matter of timing. His hair was starting to stick up in odd directions and there was a dullness to his eyes that John had seen most recently in the Holmes brothers. Greg ruffled his hair and made a face when it stuck straight up.

“Damn it.”

“Here.” John reached over and flattened Greg’s hair when he handed back his change, “You have a few minutes?”

“Not really. Why?”

“At the _very_ least you need a shower. I’d say get some sleep, but if you’re on a case, I don’t know if that’s advisable.”

“God, I’d kill for a few hours in a real bed. I haven’t been home in four days.”

“Alright.” John turned to fix up Greg’s order, shying away from adding any extra espresso shots like he usually did when Greg turned up like this, “You would be the…third person I’ve seen today who needs a few hours of sleep.”

“I am?”

“Yeah. I shoved Mycroft onto a plane bound for the States about an hour ago with a Sominex tablet in his pocket. I let Anthea know to remind him to take it before bedtime, let’s hope for the best.”

“If you told Anthea, it’ll happen.” Greg smiled, taking the cup when John handed it over, “Ta, mate. You and me need to go out drinking some night.”

“How about when you close this case you’re on? Celebrate another one on the books? I’ll buy the first round.”

“Yeah, that sounds really good.” Greg smiled wistfully, “Throw in some fish and chips and I’m all yours.” John chuckled and pointed to the chairs by the fireplace.

“Go sit down, Greg. When you’re done, go upstairs and take a shower and then take a nap.”

“Door’s open?”

“I’ll give you my key.” He shooed the DI on his way and waited until he had settled. Once Greg was ensconced with that day’s paper, John headed for the small utility closet that contained a door leading straight into 221 next door, unlocking it with a key that opened every door in the house. Slipping through the door, he headed upstairs and made sure there was no sign that Sherlock was home. After laying out clean clothes and toiletries for Greg, John checked on Sherlock in the upstairs bedroom and made a quick call.

_“New Scotland Yard Homicide, this is Detective Donovan.”_

“Hey, it’s John Watson.” John sat on the bottom riser of the seventeen stairs going up to 221B, knowing he wouldn’t be disturbed, “I’ve got your boss, Donovan.”

 _“Oh, that’s where he went!”_ The way her voice went up said a lot. John chuckled.

“Does this mean I get to keep him for a couple of hours?”

_“We’re pretty much at a dead end on this fucking case, I told him yesterday he didn’t need to come back this morning, but the moron didn’t listen. Knock him out, Watson, make sure he gets some sleep.”_

“And Lestrade makes three.” He murmured, “Alright, Donovan, thanks for the confirm. I’ll catch you at the next Pub Night?”

_“Yeah, if I’m not dead by then.”_

“Oh, I doubt you will be.” He snickered, “Since I’m buying the first round and all.”

 _“Oh, well, in_ that _case! Yeah, I’ll see you then.”_

“No problem, Donovan. You might want to consider getting some rest.”

 _Doctor’s orders_?”

“In this case? Yes, doctor’s orders. If they don’t need Lestrade, they don’t need you. Hand it to Hopkins or Dimmock and go home. Do you have ZzzQuil or Sominex, something like that?”

_“Yeah, I should. Want me to take some?”_

“One dose should do the trick. If you’re taking Sominex or Melatonin, take it with a glass of milk.”

_“You got it, Doc. Thanks again.”_

“Alright, Donovan. I’ve gotta get back to work, I’ll talk to you later.” John hung up with Sally Donovan and went back to The Blue Scarf, rummaging in the first-aid kit he kept in the store-room for what he needed. Grabbing a blister-pack of Sominex, he went out to the counter. Mrs Hudson had things under control, so he went to the fireplace.

“It’s a special kind of tired when a man falls asleep drinking coffee.” He shook his head and collected the empty cup, “Jesus, Greg.” He shook Greg by the shoulder and woke him up.

“Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Oh Christ, did I actually fall asleep?” Greg shuffled into a more upright position, but not very well. He was hurting just a bit, the lack of sleep was not helping things.

“Yep.” He chuckled, “No one cares, though. Come on, old man, up with you. I’ve got everything set up for you upstairs.” He handed over his keys and the Sominex, “Take that with a glass of milk, take a hot shower, and you can take Sherlock’s room.”

“Thanks again, John.”

“And don’t worry about time, I’ve already called The Met and talked to Sally.” He pulled a wrinkle out of Greg’s collar, “I sent her home, too, it sounds like your team’s hit a stopping-point of some kind and it’s unlikely either of you are really going to be needed at base. I told her to talk to Dimmock or Hopkins if she wants a body on-call. If there’s a break, you’ll hear about it.”

“Man, you’re efficient, Watson.” Greg smiled crookedly, “Might have missed your calling.”

“Nah. I’ve been doing this since we _met_ , y’know. Go on, you.” He patted Greg on the shoulder and pushed him towards the door, “I pulled down some of the things you keep in the closet, there’s clean pyjamas, I changed the sheets last night, and I found some of your regular clothes so you don’t have to leave wearing the same clothes you’ve been in for almost a week.” He held the door for Greg, watching from the stoop as he went across to 221 and got the door open. Wondering at the way of things, John shook his head and looked after the customers sitting outside.

It was quiet the rest of the afternoon and he closed up at his regular time. After shutting down the café, John went upstairs to 221B and checked on his patients. Greg was sleeping well, and Sherlock was out like a light. Neither of them would be awake much before morning, and that was fine. Setting up on the couch, John set alarms and got some sleep.

* * *

 


	3. Back On The Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets in a bit of case-work with Greg, and debates a visit to Sherlock's grave. Even though he KNOWS it's empty, or at least the body buried there isn't Sherlock's. Keeping up appearances is never that simple, but Greg isn't asking the uncomfortable questions, he's just trying to be a good friend on what is generally a bad few days for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The challenge was to write a fic including any/all of the following words:  
> "Three"  
> "Years"  
> "Group"  
> "Birthday" and/or "anniversary"  
> "Celebration"

* * *

There was no activity that night, and it was quiet through until morning. He heard Greg get up, shower, and go through his routine, and just smiled when the DI snuck out without making much fuss.

“Call if you need me, Greg.” He called out quietly.

“Wanker. You’ll give a bloke a heart-attack sometime.”

“Don’t worry, I know CPR.” He shot back cheekily. Greg just rolled his eyes and tied on his shoes before heading down the stairs and out. John watched from the window as the car pulled away and sighed, leaning against the cold glass. Well, that was fine. Going down to open the café, he kept to routine, occasionally stepping away to check on Sherlock.

It was quiet until noon when he got a call from Greg. A new case had come across his desk and he needed an extra pair of eyes, maybe an extra gun. Could John step away for a couple of hours and help out? John smiled and promised to help if he could.

_“Great, I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes?”_

“Yeah, that should be fine.” John checked his watch. He would need someone to look after Sherlock while he was gone, he’d ask Mrs Hudson but she was helping in the café. Hmm. As he kept up with his customers, John decided to call Molly Hooper. If nothing else, she wouldn’t be keen to gossip about Sherlock. Hell, she probably knew anyway and wouldn’t say a word otherwise. That was fine. So, between customers, he stepped into the store-room and called Saint Bart’s. It rang a few times and he wondered if he’d caught her out of the office before it turned over.

_“Saint Bart’s Pathology and Morgue, this is Hooper.”_

“Molly, hi, it’s John.” He smiled at the sound of her voice, “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

_“Oh! John, hi! No, it’s fine. What can I do for you?”_

“Okay, fine. Hey, I just needed a quick favour. If you’re not terribly busy, is there any way I could bother you to come by Baker Street?”

_“Baker Street? Why? Is everything okay?”_

“Yeah, I just…can you come? I’ll explain everything when you get here.” He looked over his shoulder, “I just need…someone to look after the flat.”

_“Oh. Sure? Are you sure things are okay?”_

“Yeah. Greg needs some help, and I can’t just leave.”

_“Of course, John. No problem, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”_

“Thanks, Molly. Sorry I’m being so vague.”

_“That’s alright. I’d be happy to help however I can. How are you, though?”_

“Yesterday wasn’t as bad as some years. It’s definitely been worse.” He smiled, knowing what she was asking without actually saying as many words.

_“Okay, as long as you’re okay.”_

“I’m fine, Molly. See you in a few.”

_“Okay, John. I’ll be there soon.”_ Molly hung up with him and he set a timer for fifteen minutes.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, the bells above the door jingled and he looked up.

“Hi, Molly!”

“Hi, John!” Molly waved from the back of a short queue, content to wait her turn. John just smiled and quietly set up Molly’s usual order. Prior to Sherlock’s fall, he hadn’t really had much in common with Molly or spent much time with her. That had kind of changed over the years since, and they were good friends, he had taken her on a couple of dates and they met up a few times a week for lunch. 

Once Molly got to the front of the queue, she handed over a couple of bills and he passed over the little takeaway cup and pastry bag.

“Hi, sweetie. Sorry if I pulled you away from anything important.”

“Not at all!” Molly smiled and leaned across the counter to kiss him on the cheek, “I can’t imagine what’s come up.”

“You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He rolled his eyes and clocked out. “Mrs Hudson, Greg’s going to be here in five minutes, can you hold the fort for me while I’m gone?”

“Oh, I know the routine, dear, you go do your thing and don’t worry a bit about us.” Mrs Hudson just smiled and waggled her fingers, “Hello, Doctor Hooper.”

“Hello, Mrs Hudson.” Molly smiled politely at Mrs Hudson and John let her through the store-room entrance. Going upstairs, he listened for any movement. Nothing from upstairs. The main door was closed. He nodded and held up one hand.

“Stay here for a mo, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” Molly just shrugged and sipped at her coffee, “Are you sure things are okay, John?”

“It’s fine, Molly. I’ll explain in a minute.” He went upstairs to his old room and knew if Sherlock wasn’t there, he’d moved to the sitting-room. If that idiot was still awake, he’d have some stiff words for him. He needed his rest. The door was propped open and the bed was empty, neatly made. He sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“Oh, that moron.” Shaking his head, he went back downstairs and found Molly sitting on the top riser, waiting patiently.

“Okay?”

“Molly?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you help the Holmes brothers in 2011?”

“I…yes.” She must have seen something in his expression, “How did you know? How _long_ have you known?”

“Since about the time it happened. I know what a body _should_ look like after a four-story fall like that, what a dead body looks like. But I never said anything.”

“Oh. John, I’m so…”

“You didn’t do it to hurt me, Molls. You did it to keep me safe, all three of you did. That’s okay.”

“Did he make it home?” Molly looked at him sadly, “Is he okay?”

“A little roughed up, but not terrible. I expected worse. I need you to stay with him, look after him for me while I’m helping Greg.”

“Oh, sure! I can do that. Keep him from leaving?”

“Yeah, he’s not really in any condition to be running around London by himself, so just try to keep him stationary.”

“Okay. I…think I can manage.” Molly nodded, obviously putting on a brave face for John’s sake. John opened the door of the flat carefully and poked his head in. It was very quiet, and he raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock would have made it too far under his own power, he was not quite at full strength and wouldn’t be for some time. A quick check showed no sign of him in the sitting room, and John was absolutely certain the tall boffin hadn’t managed to sneak out of Baker Street under his nose. The kitchen was also empty, but when John checked the back bedroom, he just smiled and shook his head.

“John?” Molly called softly from the sitting-room.

“He’s back here,” John called back before going into the room. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was awake or not and moved carefully. But as he approached the bed, Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he struggled to sit up. John put both hands out for two reasons: one, to show Sherlock that he wasn’t carrying anything; and two, to reassure him.

“Sherlock, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

“Where am I?”

“Baker Street. 221B Baker Street.” He went closer, “Look at me, Sherlock, tell me my name. Who am I?” Disoriented and justifiably afraid, Sherlock looked up at him and John waited.

“Oh. John?”

“Hi.” He crouched so Sherlock didn’t have to look up so far. “You’re safe, Sherlock, I promise. We pulled you out of Serbia two months ago and you came home to me yesterday. Do you remember that?”

“Oh. I thought I was dreaming. It’s all been real?”

“Very much. You asked me why the name of Speedy’s had changed, do you remember that?”

“And you said it was because Mr Chatterjee had sold it and moved to Hastings with his daughter, and you’d bought it and fixed it up and changed the name to something…properly deplorable.”

“Oh, thanks for that!” He rolled his eyes. “I named the place for you, you great idiot.”

“You did?”

“Blue Scarf & Belstaff?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” He smiled, “You’ll probably have a few of these episodes, and that’s okay.”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you…leaving?” He’d noticed John had his coat on.

“Yeah. Greg needs some help on a case and I said I’d pitch in if I could.”

“Greg?”

“Greg Lestrade?”

“Oh. He’s still with The Met?”

“Yep. Three months of administrative leave with reduced pay while they worked out the kinks from the mess you and Moriarty made of things and then it was back to the grindstone.”

“Oh, right. You…told me that yesterday.”

“Yes, I did.” John’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he sighed. “Damn. Greg’s here. Gotta go.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I promised. Sorry, love.”

“Don’t leave me alone?”

“You’re not alone, I called Molly to come and keep you company.” John smiled and leaned in, doing something he’d always wanted to do and had never gotten the chance to. Sherlock was warm, a little feverish, to the touch and John didn’t miss the soft whine as he kissed  Sherlock on the forehead. Sherlock smelled like sleep and mild soap, he’d gotten a shower somewhere before coming to London. Probably while in Germany, if he had to guess. 

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.” He pulled back, running one hand through short curls. “If you need anything, call for Molly. Have her call or text me, alright?”

“Do you _have_ to leave?”

“I’ll be back as soon as I’m done, Sherlock.”

“But that could take forever!”

“Hey, you berk, look at me.” He tucked a hand under Sherlock’s chin, “I waited for three bleeding years for this, I think _you_ can manage a couple of hours, alright?”

“But I waited for three years, too.” Oh, Sherlock looked so _sad_. He wasn’t wrong, John had to admit he was not wrong. They had both waited for three very long, very miserable years.

“I’ll be back when it’s over, I promise. You couldn’t make that promise. It’s alright, Sherlock.” He kissed Sherlock on the temple and got up, “I’ve gotta go. I’ll be in touch.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Sorry, Greg really needs my help. There’s a case that’s already stalled and this one might too if we don’t get on it fast enough.”

“I wish I could go.”

“Yeah, well, as far as the Commonwealth and Empire of Great Britain are concerned, you’re still dead. It’ll stay that way until Mycroft says so.”

“Ugh.”

“Get some rest, Sherlock, and stay out of trouble.” He got up and left, closing the door behind him. Out in the sitting-room, Molly was reading a book with a cup of tea and looked up as he came out.

“Everything okay?”

“He’s coherent enough to realise I’m leaving, but I think he gets it that this isn’t a long-term thing. Call me if anything comes up and I’ll come right back home.”

“Okay.” Molly just smiled and he left, trotting down the stairs and making sure to lock the door behind him as he stepped out onto the street. Greg waited by his car, looking at his watch.

“Hey.”

“Oh, hey.” Greg looked up, “Thought you weren’t coming out.”

“Nah, sorry. Had to get something.” He patted the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans with a rueful smile, “Where are we?”

“Uh, Richmond, I think?”

“Oh, that’s a bit of a drive.”

“Eh. After you, then?”

“Thanks.” He looked up at the windows for a minute before he ducked into the car.

“You still check the windows?”

“Yeah, I keep expecting to see him standing there like always, moody as hell and not about to tell me why.” John smiled.

“That’d be a miracle, wouldn’t it?”

“What would?”

“Sherlock Holmes back from the dead? What a turn-up.”

“That would be amazing.” He buckled up as Greg got them underway and wondered how on earth he was supposed to keep it a secret that he was sheltering Sherlock Holmes in 221B Baker Street, the man himself truly back from the dead despite having never actually been dead at all. It was a quiet drive, both men keeping their thoughts to themselves.

“Hey, John?” Greg spoke up as they drove across Chiswick Bridge. 

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t get out to Brompton yesterday, did you?”

“Oh. Um. No, guess I didn’t.” Which would have been the first time in three years he hadn’t visited Sherlock’s grave. It would be kind of silly to visit it now that Sherlock was home, but the fact that Greg had realized, had remembered, and felt bad was something.

“Do you _want_ to go out there?”

“Yeah, might as well. Tradition and all that.” He looked out the window, “But I kind of feel like I’m talking to nothing like there’s nothing actually there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just a feeling. Like I’m talking to a complete stranger.” He tapped the window, “If Sherlock had any idea, he’d probably call me an idiot.”

“Well, it’ll get a weight off your chest at any rate.”

“And yours?”

“Yeah, mine too.” Greg made a face before his expression smoothed over. John knew how guilty Greg felt about that day, and had tried to reassure him that none of it was his fault, it wasn’t anyone’s really. There was one person they could squarely and fairly lay the blame on, and that person was well and truly dead.

“Greg, it wasn’t your fault.” John reached over, giving Greg’s wrist a quick squeeze. “It wasn’t any of our faults, and there wasn’t a damn thing any of us could have done differently that day or the days before to change it.” That got him a slight, sad smile and John wondered what it would really take to ease the man’s conscience.

“I could have tried harder, fought harder for him.”

“He knew you believed in him, Greg, right until the bitter end.” John looked out the windscreen, “I told you what he told me, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. But he wasn’t a fraud, John.”

“I know. _We_ know. Isn’t that enough?”

“No.” Greg shook his head bleakly, “Christ, I’d give a ransom to have him back. I’d lose my job a hundred times over to bring him back from the dead.”

“That’s not something he’d want from you, Greg. He had too much respect for you.”

“Sure had a funny way of showing it, didn’t he?” Greg made a face as they came upon the police-tape and the clustered cars. “Did he honestly not know my name?”

“Y’know, I’m not actually sure? He was such a prick about it, I couldn’t honestly say if he did or didn’t. It wasn’t nice of him, though, but I guess it didn’t _really_ bother you?”

“I have bigger problems than someone conveniently forgetting my name. At least he remembered what letter it started with.”

“I guess. Boy, what happened?”

“It’s right up Sherlock’s alley, but you’re the next best thing. And my team doesn’t really mind you that much. Sally _really_ likes you, actually. Did you know that?”

“Sent her home yesterday after she called looking for you.” John smiled, “Said if they didn’t need you, they didn’t need her and to put Dimmock or Hopkins on it if they really needed a warm body to put a leash on.”

“Sounds about right for you.” Greg put the car in park. John got out and stretched a kink out of his lower back. He checked his phone for messages as he followed Greg to the line, but there was nothing. He spotted Sally Donovan on her radio and smiled. He ducked under the line, which she held up for him, once he was through she let the line drop and he chuckled as she grabbed him by the wrist.

“Thanks for coming.” She let go of the press-to-talk button as she turned to him, “And thanks for yesterday.”

“It was no problem, Sal. I’m always glad to step in if I need to. What’s on?”

“Pretty gruesome one, but if anyone can crack it, it’s probably going to be you. Something must have rubbed off on you living with Holmes all those years.” She rolled her eyes. John noticed that she didn’t call Sherlock “Freak” anymore, and appreciated that bit of maturity on her part. Sally really was a rather lovely person and a good friend of his now. He usually saw her a couple times a week when he helped Greg out on one case or another, and almost always at Pub Nights, but just like Molly, he made a point of getting together with her outside of work hours and social nights. Sometimes she stopped by the café and they would talk about things. Sometimes they did that talking in the flat and things got...well, cosy was a good word for things.

“Watson!” Greg called from further up. “Case on!”

“Be right there!” he called back. “Sorry.”

“For what?” She just smiled and let him go. “Good to see you, John.”

“You, too, Sal. You should come by The Blue Scarf sometime, haven’t seen you around there in a while.”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s been hell lately. If you weren’t around, I think we’d all be drowning.”

“Whatever helps.” He chuckled and leaned in, “Next Pub Night, first round’s on me.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” She had a very pretty blush, John decided, and he knew just how far down that blush went, thank you very much. 

“Pub Night. And the next time you get a night off, I’ll treat you nice.” He promised. He’d had a date with Molly more recently than he had with Sally, and he felt kind of bad about that.

“Oh. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I like taking care of my girls, y’know.” He smiled and she let him go after holding him back for one more kiss. By now Greg was just rolling his eyes and grumbling about the two of them acting like a pair of teenagers. John apologized for the delay, but Greg shrugged it off.

“Oh, nah. You treat her right, and I can’t count on one hand how many creeps you’ve run off on Sally’s behalf. And Molly’s. You don’t have to, y’know.”

“Someone’s got to, and it keeps me in practice.” He just flashed Greg a harmless smile.

“I guess it does, considering your dating-record looks worse than either of theirs.” Greg shook his head, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, but…branch out, why don’t you?”

“Why give up two reliable girlfriends I can pick up for a date-night when either of us actually has a night free?” John just shrugged, “Besides, it’s not like Sherlock’s around to run ‘em off, is it?”

“No, I guess that’s true. He was awful about that, wasn’t he?”

“Proprietary bastard. Didn’t like me skiving off for a night when he _might_ need me for something.” John chuckled, wondering how long it would take Sherlock to get back into that habit. How long would it take him to realise that the two girls John dated exclusively were friends and work-mates in a bizarre sort of relationship that just…worked? Molly, he probably wouldn’t complain too much, but John couldn’t imagine Sherlock being too entirely thrilled about his relationship with Sally Donovan. That could wait for later, he had work to do. And Sally was right, it was pretty gruesome. But right up his and Sherlock’s ally, and definitely the kind of case he enjoyed working.

-&-

It was almost four hours before they were able to step away from the case, and John made his belated visit to Sherlock’s grave. Greg and Sally went with him, which was very nice of them. They parked just inside the gates, giving the watchful security guard a nod as they headed into the cemetery proper. John had made the decision to move the gravesite after the headstone was vandalized and broken by haters who would never forgive Sherlock for “lying”. It was bad enough that John had actually scared off a couple of teenagers armed with shovels on one visit, trying to dig up the coffin. Greg had been more than happy to slap the lot in handcuffs and cart them off to holding to await the pleasure of parents and guardians. Within two days, John had uncovered, moved, and secured a new private burial-site in a private section of the cemetery where visitors weren’t generally allowed to go. He led the way through the familiar paths, finding his way without fail. When they reached the slightly-overgrown headstone, John was mildly surprised to see that there was someone already there ahead of them. From behind, he recognised the brothers.  

“Is that Mycroft?” Greg had spotted his husband. “What’s he doing here?”

“Same thing we are. Usually, I don’t see him around, though.” John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock saw them coming first and warned his brother. It was obvious Greg and Sally didn’t recognise him, that was just fine. John told his friends to stay back for a bit, he wanted to speak to the brothers alone.

“Yeah, sure. That’s fine, John. Take your time, mate.” Greg knew this was hard for John and had always respected his request for privacy at Sherlock’s grave.

“Thanks, Greg. I’ll only be a minute.” He gave Sally’s hand a squeeze and pulled away to go and see what the hell Sherlock was doing at the cemetery.

“Hey.”

“You moved my grave?”

“I had to, Sherlock.” He gave Sherlock a hug, which felt so very surreal standing by the black granite slab with his name carved on it. “Vandals destroyed the first one, I found them trying to dig up the coffin.”

“Oh, John.”

“They were just stupid kids acting on a dare, but Greg took care of it and I moved things around. Now the only people who can reach this grave are family, friends, and the groundskeepers.”

“Of  course you would protect my integrity at any cost.” Sherlock looked at the stone, “It’s very strange, isn’t it?”

“That’s one word for it. Strange.” He sniffled and thought back to his first real visit to the headstone bearing the name of his best friend. At that point, he’d known for sure that Sherlock wasn’t dead, but without knowing where he was or if he would ever be able to come home, every word of John’s graveside speech had been heartfelt and honest.

“I heard you, you know?”

“When I visited after your funeral with Mrs Hudson?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” He sighed and rubbed his face. He remembered seeing something out of the corner of one eye as he turned away from the headstone, but he had chalked it up to exhaustion and desperate want conjuring up his best friend. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

“I couldn’t say anything, all I wanted was to walk up to you and tell you everything.”

“But doing that would have gotten us both killed.” He shook his head ruefully, “Sherlock, you’re an idiot. But, you’re my idiot.”

“I suppose it’s my good luck that you knew I was still alive, or all of this would be much more difficult. I expected to come home and find you married or some madness.”

“Nope.” He shook his head, “Came damn close with one girl, but Sally got me set straight.”

“Donovan?”

“Oh, yeah. She put the brakes on that relationship pretty quick.” He chuckled, looking over his shoulder at his current girlfriend, “It’s a hell of a story.”

“Donovan involved herself in one of your relationships? I thought that was my job?”

“Yeah, well, you were dead for all anyone in London knew or cared, and she’s damn possessive. Just about as bad as you ever were.”

“Are you…”

“Sherlock.” John rolled his eyes, “Really?”

“I’m curious!”

“Yeah, well, keep it to yourself.” He huffed, looking at the headstone, “God help us all if I ever really do end up having to put you under this headstone, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Wouldn’t you put me there yourself?”

“Only if you do something outrageously stupid.” He shrugged, “Behave yourself, idiot, and you might be lucky enough to see your fortieth birthday.”

“I make no promises.”

“You never do.” He heard Mycroft talking with Greg and Sally and sighed. “You’d better scram out of here. I’ll see you at home.”

“Which could be a few hours from now or a few days, with this case you’re on. Have you gotten anything useful?”

“A couple of things. I learned a thing or two working with you, y’know.” He smirked and shared what he had seen and learned at the crime-scene. Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he nodded.

“Observant, aren’t you?”

“Have to be. I’d be dead long before I had anything to do with you if I wasn’t.” He shrugged, “Keep your head down, Sherlock. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. I really don’t like you having fun without me.”

“Get used to it. Until Mycroft says so, you’re still dead.”

“Damn.”

“Yes, yes, it’s terrible. I know. Go on.” He gave Sherlock a hug and pushed him towards Mycroft. Once the brothers were out of earshot, Sally joined him by the headstone.

“Are you okay, John?”

“Yeah, I’m…fine. Not fine, but better.”

“Makes you a better person than me. I’d be a mess.”

“You’ve been a mess, more than once.” He took her hand in his and they stood together by the grave. Sally shot him a dirty look but denied nothing. He wasn’t wrong, she had broken down a couple of times over Sherlock’s grave. They didn’t stay long, there was still plenty of work to do on the murder they had picked up earlier. Sherlock knew he would be occupied otherwise for who knew how long and wouldn’t be expecting him, with any luck, anytime before midnight.

* * *

 


	4. Chasing Destiny Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John closes the case he picked up right after Sherlock got back. Things go...not badly, but there's a close call. A bit of sweetness between John and Sally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The challenge was to write a fic including any/all of the following words:  
> "Three"  
> "Years"  
> "Group"  
> "Birthday" and/or "anniversary"  
> "Celebration"

* * *

John worked the double-homicide for almost a week and he did his best to put the pieces together for The Met since Sherlock was still out of commission, despite Sherlock offering his two-pence of opinion on things.  So, when he worked out that the female victim’s brother was the suspect, Greg was quick to bring him along for the final take-down. He even got some running in when the suspect tried to take off on them after Sally and Greg went to serve him once the warrants had come in. 

 

John was buried in a customer-queue halfway out the door when the bells chimed above the door and he grit his teeth.

“Hi, welcome to The Blue Scarf & Belstaff! Be right with you!” He called out in what he hoped was a cheerful voice. He had pulled Mrs Hudson for help and had even given Sherlock an apron when his flatmate begged for a job to do. At the moment, Sherlock was sitting behind the register being nice to the customers. No one had recognised him, not even long-time fans of the blog, but John had noticed a bit more was landing in the tip-jar he had sitting on the counter.

“John!” Sherlock called out a warning. John already knew who it was and looked over his shoulder. He sighed.

“Be a minute, Greg!”

“That’s alright. Take your time, son.” Greg dodged the queue and came over to the counter, “I got those warrants.”

“Figured you had. Sally around?”

“Out in the car.”

“Roger that.” John nodded and finished up the current spate of orders, Sherlock called out each one as it came up at the counter. Once he was done with the last of the orders-in-progress, he made short work of a small takeaway order of three coffees, two black and one a coffee-chai blend he had accidentally gotten Sally hooked on one late night. It was half-coffee/half-chai with extra cream and steamed milk. Sometimes he added a shot or two of espresso. This was shaping up to be one of “those” times and he shook his head as he fixed up the third of the drinks.

“Hey, Scott? Can you grab three scones, please?” He called over his shoulder at Sherlock, who answered to Scott in the café.

“Yep.” Sherlock hopped from his stool and collected the baked goods, “Did Mycroft bake these?”

“Yes, he did. Didn’t think he was the sort to take to such a practice, for all the grief we used to give him.” John wrinkled his nose, and Sherlock shot him a dirty look.

Once the order was fixed, he slipped a couple of bills into the till with a note attached and clocked out, hanging his apron in the store-room. Going around the counter after collecting his coat, John grabbed the drink-carrier and paper takeaway bag in passing.

“Mrs Hudson, I’m out! Probably be back late!” He called out towards the kitchen. Mrs Hudson just poked her head out and waved when she saw them.

“Be safe, dear! Hello, Greg!”

“Mrs Hudson.” Greg nodded politely to Mrs Hudson.

“And you, stay out of trouble. Call if you need me, but only if it’s absolutely critical. Not because you got bored, hear me?” He warned Sherlock, who tilted his head to one side as they left.

“Where are you going?”

“Got a case on and the suspect’s going to run if we don’t lock him down. We’ve got people at every port of entry, train stations, airports, harbour.”

“Oh. You know it was the brother, don’t you?”

“Yes, we know, I’m the one who figured it out.” John waved him off, “Behave yourself!”

“Yes, John.” He had kind of expected Sherlock to fight him more about going on a case without him, but he didn’t seem to mind missing out on a chase. Shaking his head, John followed Greg out of the café and sighed.

“Damn.”

“Who’s that, John? New kid? I’ve seen him a couple times this week.”

“Yeah, he’s helping out around the café. I gave him my old room, he needed a place to stay.”

“So you gave him a job and a place to live? Jesus, that’s what Sherlock did for you, isn’t it?” Greg took his share of the order, “That’s nice of you.”

“Scott’s one of Sherlock’s, so…yeah, you do the maths.”

“Don’t have to.” Greg smiled, “Got a heart of gold, you do.” John rolled his eyes and handed Sally her coffee.

“That’s all yours, love.”

“Oh, you’re lovely.” Sally moved over to let him have shotgun and he grinned. Sherlock would kill him for this, but he really _really_ enjoyed spending time with Sally. A quick, sloppy kiss tasted like coffee, there wasn’t time for much more right now.

“Oh, Jesus. Come _on_ , you two!” Greg rolled his eyes, “Pair of horny teenagers, my god!”

“Sorry, Boss.”

“No, you’re not. Buckle up, kids.” Greg shook his head as John took shotgun and Sally took the backseat.

-&-

It took fifteen minutes to reach Seth Robertson’s home in Islington and John waited at the car. He usually did when he attended a call like this one. He didn’t have a badge, but he did have handcuffs. Greg had given him the spares in the glove-box, “just in case”. It was quiet for a while, but the sound of breaking glass got his attention pretty quick and he straightened up, ready for a good run. Sure enough, Valerie Lussan’s brother did not disappoint him and appeared on the first-story balcony, wasting no time at all vaulting the rail and taking a leap. John ducked around the side of the car and waited until Robertson was about halfway down the block before he took chase.

“Watson! Run him down!” Greg yelled from behind them, “Don’t let him get away!” John gave a quick wave to signal that he’d heard and put on a burst of speed as Robertson looked over his shoulder and caught sight of him. Being taller, and probably in better shape, than John, it wasn’t hard for Robertson to pull ahead out of range. But if there was one thing John was good at, it was running suspects. He lost Robertson on a crowded street-corner, but picked up his trail again about two blocks ahead and closed in. By now, word had gotten out that they had a suspect on the lam, so some back-up would be lovely. Just, y’know, when you got a chance, boys?

John chased Robertson north and then swung south again and headed for Regent’s Park. Robertson thought he was going to lose John on his own stomping grounds, and that moron had another thing coming. John couldn’t count the number of times he’d worked a case this close to home, or just for the hell of it gone for a jaunt with Sherlock. It was one way they’d kept their skills sharp to run parts of London, an elaborate game of tag with clues left for the tagger to follow until they found the runner. John smirked when Robertson cut left past a couple of houses and dodged down the next alleyway. It took him less time to climb the fire-escape and take to the rooftops than it did for Robertson to gain a lead. By the time he caught up with Robertson, they had cleared Regent’s Park to Baker Street and a couple of cars tried to cut them off as Robertson fled the park. Robertson, desperate to avoid capture, vaulted the cars and kept running. John followed right after him, using the bonnet of the car on the right as a launch-pad. He hit the ground, got his balance, and kept running. He landed a bit funny and knew he’d pay for it later if he’d sprained something.

“You’re all mine, you bastard.” He growled as he closed in on Robertson again.

He lost him at the top of Baker Street and took a minute to catch his breath. John heard shouting down by the café and put on another burst of speed. Breaking through a cluster of startled pedestrians, he skidded to a halt. For the first time in three years, he and Sherlock had brought down a suspect. It didn’t surprise him _that_ much to see his flatmate sitting on a struggling Seth Robertson, who spat, kicked, and threatened. John heard sirens behind them and groaned. Grabbing the cuffs out of his back pocket, he tossed them to Sherlock.

“Thanks for that.”

“Yeah, no problem. Saw the cars first and figured it was important. How far was this one?”

“From Angel to Baker Street. That’s…oh, Jesus Christ. Five miles the way he ran us?” John put both hands on his knees and leaned over to catch his breath. “Christ, I haven’t run like that in a while.”

“Out of shape, are we?”

“Fuck you, Holmes.” He gasped, “I’m in better shape than _you_ are, you wanker.”

“Wouldn’t know that the way you’re gasping like a fish out of water, would we?”

“Change the locks on you, you barmy bastard.” He looked over his shoulder, at the sound of sirens. “There’s Greg.” Greg’s car pulled up and screeched to a halt with two pandas in tow. Greg and Sally rushed out of the car, weapons drawn, high on adrenaline.

“John!”

“Got ‘im, Greg! Stand down.” John leaned down and collected Robertson from Sherlock, “Scott took him down for us.”

“God damn it! Mr Robertson, I hope you realise that innocent men do not run from the law like you have!” Greg snarled, holstering his weapon and beckoning two constables to take Robertson from John, who had one hand on Robertson’s shoulder and the other on the cuffs.

“Next time, son, just fess up and do your time. Now you’ve got resisting arrest and…oh, look, assault on a police officer. Thanks for that.” He spotted the bruise darkening on Sally’s cheek. That made him very angry. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to hit a woman? Though, considering the way we found your poor sister, I guess not.”

“I didn’t kill Valerie!”

“Evidence rarely lies, son. Your DNA was all over that girl’s body.” He indicated a series of wounds on Robertson’s hands and forearms. His blood-DNA had been found with his sister’s, and worse than that seminal DNA had been left from rape. “Even if your blood hadn’t been all over her body, you didn’t use a condom when you raped your own sister, so you’d be fucked either way you look at it.”

“I…didn’t…”

“Stop. Digging.” Greg growled as they hustled Robertson to a car, “You’ve done nothing but lie to us since the beginning, I am in no mood to hear you beg.” John folded his arms and watched the cars pull away.

“See you at The Yard, John?”

“Yeah. Right behind, Greg.” He rubbed his shoulder absently. “I need to grab something from upstairs first.”

“Get a brace for that knee, son. You’re standing on it funny.” Greg patted him on the shoulder carefully, “You pull a muscle or something?”

“Not a bleeding clue. Got that clearing the cars up at Regent’s.”

“Bloody idiot.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged and looked over at Sherlock, “You want me to bring Scott in?”

“You did all the hard work.”

“Yeah, but he’s the one who caught Robertson.”

“Do you _want_ to come in?” Greg looked at Sherlock, who stood quietly by, “Wouldn’t take long at all.”

“For a report?”

“Gotta take _him_ in, anyway.” With a thumb in John’s direction as he got the door of 221B open.

“Right behind in a taxi, not in a police vehicle.”

“Yeah, got that. See you two in a bit.” Greg waved and headed for his car. John saw Sally hesitate a bit and caught his lower lip between his teeth. She had work to do, she couldn’t stay.

“Donovan!” Greg barked. Sally and John flinched and he made the first move. Leaving Sherlock standing by the open door of the house, he put careful hands on Sally. Nothing was broken, on first look, nothing seriously damaged. She might have pulled a muscle in her shoulder, possibly dislocated it, but she wasn’t…he’d seen worse. The bruise on her cheek would heal in a week or two, it could be concealed with makeup if she was feeling particularly self-conscious. Leaning in after reassuring himself that she hadn’t broken her jaw, John kissed her, being very careful of the bruise. She whined and the noise that got stuck sounded suspiciously like a sob. She was shaking, adrenaline was wearing off, and he suspected she had stared down the wrong end of a gun in that flat. He hadn’t heard any gunshots, but that didn’t mean a weapon hadn’t been discharged. 

“Oh, honey.” John sighed and hugged her tight, feeling the way she slumped. “It happened again, didn’t it? Back at Graham Street?”

“I’m so sorry, John! You always tell me!”

“Doesn’t mean you always listen, love. Jesus, you remind me of Sherlock sometimes, you know that?”

“Yeah, you like to tell me that when I act like an idiot.” She tried to laugh and couldn’t, “I didn’t know he had a gun.”

“Just add that to his list of existing charges, he’s in a lot of trouble anyway.” Sherlock piped in from behind them, not much bothered by the very public affection John was showing Sally, “Not only did he resist arrest, but he discharged a firearm, illegally owned if I had to guess, in the presence of police personnel, endangering lives in the process. Two senior members of New Scotland Yard, no less.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” John sighed. “Go on, Sal. I’ll see you at the office.”

“Okay. Thanks, John.” She smiled a little brokenly and ducked into Greg’s car. Before the car was out of sight, John was halfway up the stairs. It was slow going because of whatever he’d done to his knee, but he made it upstairs in time and dug up his kit. Applying a brace to his knee and taking a couple of anti-inflammatories and pain-relievers, John grabbed the smaller field-kit he brought along to scenes and double checked for his phone, keys, and wallet. Everything where it should be, time to go. Grabbing his cane, which he’d kept and rarely ever used anymore, he shuffled downstairs and found Sherlock waiting at the kerb with a taxi at the ready. Just like the old days. John chuckled, adjusted the kit on his shoulder, and ducked into the cab.

“Still have the magic touch, Sherlock.”

“Wouldn’t call it that.” Sherlock shrugged and gave the driver the address to The Met offices. It was quiet for a while, but he knew Sherlock had questions. In the week since Sherlock had returned to London from Germany, he had been in and out of the place for work with The Met, but this was the first time work had come to _them_. Sherlock knew about John and Molly, but only today had he’d seen any evidence of John’s other stable relationship.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you…dating anyone?”

“Yeah? A couple of people, actually. Off and on as scheduling and demand allow.” He sighed, “One a bit more seriously.”

“It’s more…platonic with Molly Hooper, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, she’s a real sweet girl. But terrible taste in boyfriends.”

“Can’t be _that_ terrible.” Sherlock said quietly, “It’s a lack of decent candidates.”

“Oh, brother, let me tell you about some of the blokes I’ve run off on her behalf.” He snorted, “Do you remember Tom Banley?”

“My scrawny look-alike?”

“Yeah,” John smirked. Rich words for one of the skinniest people he knew, but Sherlock wasn’t wrong.

“Yes, I remember him, but not fondly.”

“Yeah, he didn’t last long after The Fall.”

“What happened?”

“Turned out he was, uh,” John made a vague gesture, “Not quite who he said he was. Mycroft took care of it very discreetly.”

“He was one of Moriarty’s, wasn’t he?”

“Yep, he’s the one who had a mark on my back that day at Saint Bart’s. I knew there was something about him I didn’t like much.”

“What about Sally Donovan? I thought you didn’t like her.”

“I didn’t, not even a little.” John sighed, “It took us a while to get past our hang-ups, to reconcile with each other and make peace with the ugly past that stood between us. She never asked me to forgive her for what happened with Moriarty, she knew she didn’t deserve it.”

“But you forgave her anyway, you’re just that kind of person.”

“Of course I forgave her. She’s a smart woman, and not terribly unattractive.” To be honest, Sally was probably one of the most attractive women he knew, it was just a shame that she had a nasty streak that made her very unpleasant to be around. But John was no saint and had his own issues.

“But she was sincere about it. When others weren’t.”

“Yeah. She admitted that when it happened, she had kind of forgotten about me, and was so focused on tearing you apart that she didn’t realise I’d gotten caught in the cross-fire until we ran from Baker Street.”

“When you chinned the Superintendent and I took you hostage, you mean.”

“Yeah, right about then.” He sighed, remembering that awful night. “Y’know, she came to the hospital, Sherlock?”

“She did?”

“Yeah, with Greg. She was with me when I had to…” John did not recall that moment fondly, being forced to identify Sherlock for Molly and The Met. 

“Oh, John. I’m so sorry.” Sherlock took his hand, “I shouldn’t have asked so much of you, not without giving something. Telling you something.”

“Don’t worry about it. I figured it out on my own.” He smiled, “See, you can’t really fool a doctor, let alone a soldier. I know what a dead body’s supposed to look like after a four-story plunge, and you, my friend, didn’t look a damn like one.”

“I could have taken the impact on my shoulder and hip?”

“No fractures, no broken bones. That kind of fall would have broken your ribs at least. And the blood splatter was wrong, never mind the fact that the concrete beneath you was intact.” He sniffed, “Did you know that concrete will buckle under the impact of a falling body?”

“It’s simple physics.”

“The concrete wasn’t buckled or even cracked. And blood will not pool from a fractured skull, it will spray and splatter. Trust me, son, if there’s one thing I know, it’s head-wounds.”

“But you didn’t say anything, you never gave away that you knew?”

“I couldn’t. Not because I thought it might get me killed, but I just didn’t know how _long_ it would be true. For all I knew, you’d get yourself offed doing something stupid in Central Europe or South America and then you really would be dead. And I would never know different.” He took Sherlock’s hand back in his, “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Next time a maniac criminal mastermind puts you in his sights, don’t be stupid about it.”

“I promise, John.”

“Thank you. I’m not asking you to keep that promise, but you’ve made it, which is what counts.” He studied new scars on familiar hands, “You did not take care of yourself out there, did you?”

“Nope. Didn’t have you there to keep me straight, y’know?”

“Jesus, you’re hopeless.”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm.” He rolled his eyes. When they got to The Met, he paid the fare and led the way to Greg’s office.

“Oh, there was one thing I wanted to know,” Sherlock spoke up in the lift, rocking on his heels.

“About?”

“How on earth did you get Donovan away that prick Anderson?”

“Oh, that?” John snickered, “That was easy, and I didn’t have a damn thing to do with it. She dumped him on her own and told him to shape up or ship out. He quit his job a few months later and went on some mad crusade trying to clear your name.”

“Anderson did?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re the one who cleared my name, John. I still have that paper.”

“Mycroft sent it to you?”

“I was in Scotland at the time on hiatus between jobs and I saw the front-page piece.” Sherlock’s eyes dimmed, “Big headline read “Disgraced Detective’s Name Cleared”. The picture they used, you looked like you wanted to beat the photographer senseless.”

“That was a picture taken by paparazzi at a crime-scene, I was already in a bad mood when I caught them taking my picture.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, Greg shipped me to lock-up for forty-eight hours to cool my head and your brother bailed me out.”

“For doing _what_?”

“Beating the snot out of a photog who refused to destroy that picture.” That hadn’t been the  _only_ thing John had done to the smug bastard. He’d broken the bastard's camera (sadly, not the memory-card that had that picture on it), one hand, and given him a lovely black eye and a broken nose for the trouble. And he hadn’t been sorry for any of it.

“John!”

“I never said I was a nice person.” He shrugged, “But yeah, I cleared your name. I had to, I owed it to you. Dead or alive, you deserved a redemption.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock sighed as the doors opened on the CID Division floor. John led the way to the offices and found Greg in his office doing paperwork. It was quiet as John filled out his reports, Sherlock messed with a biro and kept his mouth shut. John knew the moment Sherlock caught sight of the ring on Greg's left hand, and when he deduced just exactly who had given it to him, what it was for. He watched the dark head tilt to one side, those eyes narrow.

“Oh. You’re married?”

“Uh, what?” Greg hadn’t been paying any attention and raised his head. “What?”

“You’re married again.” Sherlock pointed to the ring, “But you were divorced, weren’t you?”

“For a while. Wasn’t really looking, y’know? Wasn’t thinking about marrying again after _that_ disaster.”

“Your ex-wife didn’t deserve you, Inspector Lestrade. She knew exactly what she was marrying into and still blamed you for doing your job.” Sherlock frowned, “But you’re happy?”

“Yeah? I guess.”

“You…guess?” If Sherlock didn’t shut up, he’d give himself away. John coughed softly.

“What’s it matter to you, then, sir?” Greg pinned Sherlock with a sharp look. John snickered. Right then.

“Because your marital bliss affects your work ethic. If you’re happy, your team is happy and John is happy. If you’re _not_ happy, if you’ve been fighting over something, your team knows it and behaves accordingly. Or even if…ah, even if your spouse travels? Does he travel often?”

“How the bloody hell did…”

“Oh, please. You’re bisexual, rather closeted, but I can see! Don’t look so surprised!”

“I don’t…”

“Oh, that’s interesting.” Sherlock leaned across the desk, “I thought I recognised it.”

“Recognised…what, exactly?”

“Scott,” John warned. Sherlock was about to give himself away, right there in Greg’s office. Getting up, John went to the door and checked both ways before he locked the door. Pulling the curtains, he put his back to the door and folded his arms. “Don’t be a bastard about it, you can be nice. It’s your fucking fault, anyway.”

“What is going on? How did you know any of that?”

“Greg?”

“What!” Greg looked past Sherlock at John, eyes wide.

“What did Sherlock always used to say?”                        

“About _what_? He did an awful lot of talking, if I remember right.”

“What. Did. He. Say? Specifically about observing?”

“Oh, fucking Christ!” Greg put his head in his hands, “That little bastard used to say it all the fucking time! You see but you do not observe!” And if Sherlock didn’t say it just at the same time.

“Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me.” Greg dropped his head to the desk with a rather painful-sounding thud. “You bastard.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Lestrade.”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t get paid enough for this!” Greg groaned. He raised his head and looked from Sherlock, who didn’t look a whole lot like himself just at the moment, to John, and made a face. “Hang on.”

“Here it comes.”

“You’re back at Baker Street, yeah?”

“Yes, I have been for a week. And I don’t intend to leave it again anytime in the near or distant future without good cause.”

“And no one in London knows you’re alive?”

“A very, _very_ small circle knows.” Sherlock looked over at John, his expression softening. “John, Mycroft, Molly, and Mrs Hudson.”

“Mycroft knows!”

“Of course he knows, he planned it all. It was your head if anything went wrong, he couldn’t tell you.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Sorry.”

“Hang on. You say it was my head if anything went wrong? Like what? Snipers or something?”

“Precisely that.”

“Bloody hell, can’t you keep out of trouble without bringing the rest of us along, Sherlock?”

“What’s the fun in going by yourself?”

“I kind of hate you.”

“More or less than usual?”

“About the same. You’re lucky we’re family now.”

“I imagine that’s true.”

“Sherlock.” John leaned his head back, “Can you please be nice to him?”

“I am being nice.”

“No, you’re being yourself.”

“Well, nicer.”

“You have a funny concept of nice, sir.” Greg glared at Sherlock, “I’m of half a mind to reach across that desk and strangle you, but I’m too damn happy to see you.” John rolled his eyes and unlocked the door, pulling it open after he got his kit.

“Look, you two kiss and make up, I’m off to find my girlfriend and make sure our idiot Mr Robertson didn’t do more harm than I could see at first.”

“Sure, John. I think she’s got a bum shoulder, I heard something when they wrestled for the gun. I thought it was the table breaking, but it might’ve been more than that.” Greg made a dismissive gesture.

“Just keep it between the two of you that Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead, having never actually _been_ dead in the first place.” He warned as he left the office, pulling the door closed. He didn’t close the door all the way, but just enough that people would get the point and knock before disturbing Greg.

* * *

 


	5. Chasing Destiny Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John closes the case he picked up right after Sherlock got back. Things go...not badly, but there's a close call. A bit of sweetness between John and Sally. Picks up right after the end of Pt 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The challenge was to write a fic including any/all of the following words:  
> "Three"  
> "Years"  
> "Group"  
> "Birthday" and/or "anniversary"  
> "Celebration"

* * *

It didn’t take John long to find Sally in _her_ office, trying to make headway on the stacks cluttering her desk, to get over what had happened at the Graham Street flat. He still remembered when she had called him with the news about her promotion to DI, how giddy she’d been. He had taken her out to the nicest restaurant he could afford that night, getting a reservation at The Landmark. The reservation had been on the books for a couple of weeks, but being able to celebrate a big milestone like a promotion made it better.

John sighed and let himself into Sally’s office. Just like he had at Greg’s office, he locked the door behind him. If anyone needed Sally, they could damn well wait for her. He lowered the blinds and went as far as turning off most of the overheads. A desk-lamp offered a bit of illumination, but not much. Going around the desk again, he stood behind her.

“Greg told me you hurt yourself.”

“I’m so sorry, John.” She leaned her head back and looked at him, “Are you awfully upset with me?”

“No, I’m not. You’re alive, we got the bad guy, and it will take a legitimate miracle for him to see another day on the streets of London. He made a big mistake today.”

“Firing an illegal handgun at two police officers, one of them married to the most powerful man in the city? Maybe the country? Oh, he’ll go away for a very, very long time.” Sally cracked a grin, “Think we could sweet-talk Mycroft into sending Mr Robertson somewhere especially unpleasant like Siberia?”

“No sweet-talking required if his husband’s personal safety is threatened. You know how he gets.” John rolled his eyes and got Sally out of her desk chair. Sitting her down in one of the smaller chairs, John got her out of her blazer and blouse, getting a better idea of what he was up against. It was a separation, not a dislocation. He knew that by feel alone. Damn.

“Sal?”

“Hmm?”

“Is there _any_ chance I can convince you to come with me?”

“Why?”                                                                                                                                            

“You need an x-ray before I touch you. I’ll do the rest, but I need a confirm.”

“What happened?” She looked at him, her expression tight with pain.

“You were falling backwards, probably had your fall broken by a coffee-table, but the impact combined with the stress already being put on your arm and shoulder, you suffered a separated shoulder. I can fix it, but I want to make sure nothing got broken or fractured. It doesn’t feel like it, but better safe than very sorry.”

“Of course I’m dating a doctor.” She smiled a bit. “Get me out of here.”

“My pleasure.” John helped her button up her blouse and get into her blazer. He collected her coat and keys and held the door for her. “After you, madam.”

“Sir.” She made a face at him for his bit of chivalry. Stopping by Greg’s office, John grabbed his coat and keys, warned Sherlock to behave himself, and told Greg he was stealing Sally for a couple of hours.

“You’re taking her to the hospital?” Greg gave him that steady, inquiring look he saved for when he was asking a question he already knew the answer to and was only asking for your sake.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. See you later, then?”

“Absolutely.” He glanced at Sherlock, who just grinned back at him. “Don’t let that one get up to his old tricks, will you?”

“Too late for that. But I've got a stack or two of cold case files that need working over, so I should be able to keep him occupied.” Greg shrugged, “You get on your way and let me know when I can have my Inspector back.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. Thanks, Greg.”

“I should be thanking you, John. You’re the one who ran five miles to catch our man, aren’t you?”

“Yeah?”

“How’s your knee?”

“It’ll probably heal faster than Sal’s shoulder. Or at about the same rate, depending on how badly I landed on it.” He shrugged, “We’ll be in touch.”

“Good thing you kept that stupid cane,” Sherlock muttered, halfway through one of Greg’s cold cases. “But you never throw anything away.”

“No, _you_ never throw anything away. And I kept it because I knew it would be useful.” John snapped, leaning on said cane a bit to take some weight off of his right knee, which he had injured in the course of the chase. All that got him was a familiar dismissive flick of fingers.

“Busy. Shoo.”

“Wanker.”

“You love me.”

“Do I?” He shot back, one eyebrow raised, “Do I really?”

“Really terrible judgment if you do.”

“You’re terrible.” John rolled his eyes, “I’m leaving and I swear if I get a phone-call from Greg about you, I take no responsibility for the aftermath.”

“Do you ever?”

“Boys, knock it off. John, go get the two of you taken care of. I’ll manage this madman for you.” Greg shook his head, “Knew there was something I was missing.”

“Thanks, Greg. Call if you need anything.”

“Will do.” He waved and left the office with Sally in tow. It was quiet as they left The Met and John hailed a cab. Or would have, if a familiar black car hadn’t been waiting at the kerb for them. John sighed and looked at Sally.

“Nosy prat.”

“Useful nosy prat. I’ll take that ride over a taxi any day.” She grinned and headed for the idling car. The driver held the door for them and as soon as John was in, went around and got behind the wheel.

“Where to, Doctor Watson?”

“Er, Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, please?”

“Yes, sir. A&E Department?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

“Of course, sir.” The driver touched his cap and got them underway. John had met, and employed, most if not all of Mycroft’s drivers in the past three years, but he wasn’t sure he had ever met this one. The driver was a tall, broad-shouldered bloke with darker skin than anyone else who drove for Mycroft Holmes, a broad, friendly face with dark brown eyes, close-cut “fuzzy” hair typical of those with darker skin*, and the build of a rugby brawler. Definitely the sort who knew his business, probably packed heat. All of Mycroft’s drivers did, it was almost a requirement that the drivers carry permits and warrants to bear private firearms.

John looked at his watch and raised an eyebrow.

“Thompson must be off today.”

“He’s with his wife, sir. Won’t be back to work for two weeks at least.”

“Two…weeks. Oh! She had the baby!” John chuckled, “That’s right, it’s all he talked about last I saw him. Recently, I suspect?”

“Just this morning, sir. We haven’t heard much of anything.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t have at this rate.” He grinned, “That’s fine.”

“My name is Franklin, sir.” The driver provided, “I’ll be covering for Thompson while he’s gone, sir.”

“Thank you, Franklin.” John tried to get comfortable, but that foot-chase had pulled up a long list of aches and pains. When they got to the hospital, Franklin held the door for them and asked if they wanted him to stay.

“Find an out of the way place to park, it could be a long while.”

“Of course, sir. Just give a ring when you need me again.” Franklin passed him a familiar card and ducked back into the car to move it while John took Sally and went inside the A&E Department. Finding their way to the Urgent Care Center took a bit, but once they had sorted out the paperwork, it was a matter of waiting. John thought they probably looked a right bizarre picture together, sitting as close together as they could get in the cramped, ugly chairs, Sally looking a bit worse for the wear. But it should be obvious to anyone who cared to inquire that John was _not_ the party responsible for Sally’s scrapes and bruises. He hadn’t raised his hand to leave a bruise on her cheek, he hadn’t thrown her against a coffee-table during a fight for an illegal firearm. He hadn’t put his hand around her throat in anger like that. A handprint comparison would show the difference in size, his hand was the wrong size and shape to match _those_ bruises. Sally had suffered a separated shoulder, a couple of bruised ribs (thank Christ she hadn’t broken any), a bruised cheek, and a nasty fright when Robertson pulled the gun on them. John touched the red marks on her throat, angered that someone had put hands to Sally like that.

“Oh, Sally.”

“If Greg hadn’t been there, he probably would have tried to kill me.” Sally leaned against him, “I’m so sorry, John. I shouldn’t have made you stay at the car.”

“You didn’t make me, I always stay by the car.” He rubbed her arm carefully, offering support and wondering if Mycroft would give him a shot at Robertson. “How’d you get him off of you, then?”

“I used my gun to hit him. Stunned him and he rolled off, but before we could cuff ‘im, he jumped through the window and out over the balcony. You took over from there.” Sally shook her head, “You can tell me to go fuck off the next time I tell you to stay behind.”

“Well, I won’t say _that_ , but if you ask me, I’ll always, _always_ watch your six, Sal.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, “It’d be both our heads if something worse happened to you and I just kind of stood there looking menacing and pretty.”

“Menacing and…pretty.” At least it got her to smile. “Really, John?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Nope.” She smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder. After a while, a nurse came through, looking at a print-out.

“Donovan?” She called out, looking up at the waiting patients, “Donovan?”

“That’s you, love.” John nudged Sally to her feet, “Off you go.”

“Guess you can’t come with me, can you?”

“Nope. Got my own waiting to do.” Not that he wanted to, John would much rather be with Sally. But protocol was to be followed and he couldn’t go with her just this minute.

“Hope they don’t make you wait _too_ long.” She muttered glumly, trudging towards the tolerant nurse, who looked down at the print-out again.

“Sarah Donovan?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Sarah?” John raised an eyebrow. All that got him was a baleful, warning glare. He didn’t get a chance to say much more, another nurse appeared with another print-out in hand.

“Watson?”

“Yep. Thank Christ.” He muttered, shoving to his feet. But before he could try to compensate for his bum knee, a hand was under his elbow. Sally had come back to get him.

“Need a hand?”

“Thanks, love.” He smiled and they made their way back to the bemused nurses together. “Didn’t need to do that, y’know.”

“Oh, sure I did. Not because I _had_ to, but because I could. Besides, when’s the next time I’ll see you? Around here?”

“Oh, Christ, right before we leave, probably.” He shrugged, “Just don’t be a nuisance.”

“I make no promises.”                                                                                

“You never do.” He just smiled and stole a quick kiss before sending her off. The nurse who had called his name, a motherly-looking woman whose badge read “Katarzyna”, just smiled benignly and double-checked her print-out.

“John Watson?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Just follow me, sir. We’ll be going after them.” She indicated the direction Sally and the other nurse had gone. John raised an eyebrow.

“That’s some luck, then.”

“Married, are you?” Katarzyna asked with a sly smile. She was European, her name made him think Eastern European. The accent was wrong for Germany or Russia, he didn’t think it was Finnish or Austrian, but…maybe a hint of the latter? Poland, perhaps?

“Uh, no.” He shook his head at the question, “No, not…uh, not married.” Not that he hadn’t _thought_ about it in the past, but no. Not married.

“That’s a shame. Such a pretty girl needs the right man to look after her, yeah?”

“He tries.” Sally piped in over her shoulder, “Sure is a better sight than my exes.”

“Oi!”

“I said you were handsome, don’t look at me like that.”

“Yeah, thanks for that!” he rolled his eyes, “You impossible thing! Suppose I should be grateful your sense of humour didn’t suffer too badly?”

“Maybe.” She would have shrugged, but that wasn’t a smart thing to do. Katarzyna and the other nurse looked at each other and chuckled. The room they were taken to was lined with rows of beds separated by curtains. John was settled in one little cubicle, Sally in the other, and the curtains were pulled. Katarzyna sat him down and questioned him about what had the two of them in together like this. His story and Sally’s were a match, of course, minus a few details like the fight for Robertson’s gun that were tactfully left out, and after satisfying the nurses, they were left alone to change out of their street-clothes into the provided gowns. They each got two as a matter of modesty, for which John was rather grateful. He sat down on the stiff bed with a groan, hoping this would be a quick visit.

“You never told me what it was exactly you did to hurt your knee, John.” Sally must have heard him and he snickered, glancing at the curtain separating his cubicle from hers.

“Being stupid.”

“You’ll have to elaborate. Stupid is kind of a way of life for you when you’re on the hunt, isn’t it?”

“Oi.”

“Am I wrong?”

“I’m not _that_ reckless, am I?”

“Not most of the time. What’d you do this time, then? Rugby tackle ‘im?”

“No, but I think Scott might’ve.” He made a face. “Nope. I thought it was a good idea to jump a couple of pandas at Regent’s and used one for a spring-board. Landed funny and the rest is history.”

“John! I told you not to do that anymore!” He didn’t have to be looking at her to know what kind of face she was making. He just shrugged.

“I never promised to listen, did I?”

“You’ll be the death of me, did you know that?”

“You like to remind me occasionally.” John grinned, “Can you blame me?”

“With your take-down record? You’re lucky you’re so good at it, John Watson.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” He chuckled, “I make your job easier, don’t I?”

“ _Most_ of the time. But you have your moments.”

“Well, yeah. Of course I do.”

“But you generally do a better job than we can.”

“Oh, by the way?” He hopped to his feet and shuffled over, pulling aside the curtains, “Why didn’t you ever tell me your first name was Sarah?”

“It never seemed important.”

“It’s you, Sally, it’s always important.” He sighed, retreating to his bed. “I knew Sally was a nickname for Sarah, but I didn’t think you actually used it that way, I just thought your parents decided to name you Sally.”

“I was born Sarah Katherine Azmera Donovan.” Sally swung her feet, scratching at her thumb like she did when she was nervous. John shook his head, amused by her little quirks.

“Well, that’s a proper name for you.”

“I hated my names when I was little. They sounded so pretentious to ten-year-old me, and I’d gone by Sally my whole life.” Sally shrugged her unhurt shoulder, “My mum called me Sarah Katherine when I was misbehaving, my grandmother called me Azmera for as long as she lived. Never called me another thing, no matter how many times we told her or asked.”

“It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?”

“You think so?”

“It’s got an interesting flow to it, a rhythm.” He smiled as he recited her full name back to her. “Sarah Katherine Azmera Donovan. A nice smooth name. A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“Christ, you earned your nickname, didn’t you?”

“May have.” He shrugged. “I don’t wander anymore, Sal.”

“I guess you don’t, do you?” She tilted her head, which hurt a little if that grimace was any indicator.

Before he could do anything or say anything, the nurse was back. Katarzyna had also returned, and directed him to the bed again, pulling the curtain. As was standard procedure, John and Sally were put on a series of monitors and an IV. After everything was in place, they were left alone again. John had been counting in his head and had gotten to sixty-five when he heard Sally let out a breath.

“That was awful.” She muttered. John sighed.

“Well, you handled it better. Couple years ago, you’d have been screaming and fighting them.” He managed to tug the curtain aside so he could see her, “They didn’t miss, did they?”

“Yes, they did.”

“I’m sorry, love.” He frowned. There wasn’t a lot Sally was afraid of, but she had a fear of needles. John wasn’t sure of the genesis of the phobia, but he had worked with Sally to get her past the worst of her fear. Being a field-medic for so long with the Army, he knew how to be quick and effective with a needle, how to place an IV. It wasn’t generally something a licensed physician had to know how to do, but John had worked with his nurses to learn everything they did so he could do it himself if necessary. He hadn’t really had much use for it since coming home from Afghanistan, except the one or two times he’d put Sherlock on bed-rest with fluids to recover from forgetting to eat or sleep for too long. And the occasional drug-trip crash. But when he had learned about Sally’s phobia, he had offered to work with her and now, with rare exception, she had no problem with needles.

“I don’t like other people doing that to me.”

“Well, obviously, I can’t do it _all_ the time, Sal.” John tugged on the tape securing his and made a face, “I’ve had a nurse miss before. It’s not fun.”

“How long do you think they’ll keep us here?”

“No idea. Probably longer than either of us want to be here.” John sighed and settled in for a long wait. Then it was time to wait on the pleasure of some overworked A&E surgeon with too many patients on his roster. They waited two hours and John had his reservations about the surgeon’s age. The kid couldn’t have been long out of med-school, and he had a very tame stutter. But his age did not dictate his competence, and Neale Wilson was quite capable despite his youth. It was almost an hour before Sally’s nurse returned with a tech in tow. The tech introduced himself as Brian and explained that they were taking Sally to get her shoulder x-rayed. She grumbled and muttered and sat down in the wheel-chair with a petulance that John found touching. Sally was a doer and preferred doing for herself, ta much. It was quiet after she left, and John decided to catch up on a bit of sleep. Katarzyna popped in about three minutes after Sally was taken off for imaging, asking if he needed anything.

“It’ll be a while, I’m afraid. Can I get you anything while you wait, dear?”

“I’d kill for a cup of tea, but they won’t let us drink or eat anything.” He hated that policy, but it saved lives when patients actually paid attention to it. “Can I get an extra blanket?”

 “Of course, dear!” Katarzyna just beamed at him and bustled off, singing to herself in some foreign language. Polish, most likely. It had to be Polish. When Katarzyna came back with not one but two blankets, John just smiled.

“Two?”

“You’ll be here a while. You should be comfortable.” Katarzyna helped him get comfortable on the stiff bed and he was briefly reminded of his grandmother tucking him into bed when he got the flu as a child. She patted him on the unhurt leg and asked if he needed anything else. No, everything else was fine. Katarzyna checked the monitors he'd been hooked up to and promised to check back in a while. For his own sake, he had been hooked up to a pulse-ox monitor, a standard heart-rate monitor, and a blood-pressure monitor. All of these readouts were displayed on the screen above his head. And they all looked blessedly normal.

-&-

John took a short nap while waiting. When Sally got back, it was his turn. Thankfully, the techs were competent and quick about it, and he was back in that cramped little bed in no time at all. It was a wait of at least another hour before the surgeon assigned their cases got back to see them. But, the good news for Sally was she hadn’t broken anything and it was considered a clean separation. They classified the injury as a Type I Acromioclavicular Joint Injury. The x-rays had all come back clean, but a regimen of ice-packs, anti-inflammatories, and a sling were prescribed, as well as follow-up as soon as possible with the doctor of her choice.

“I know who to talk to, Doctor Wilson.” Sally was polite, and John stifled a snicker. Oh, yes, he would be talking to her about this for certain. He could point her in the direction of another GP if she wanted, might do anyway, but it tickled him that she trusted him so much. Then, it was John’s turn. His injury was much simpler, a simple knee sprain, the culprit being the ACL. When Doctor Wilson asked what it was John had done to injure himself like that, Sally snickered.

“This should be good.”

“Oi, you hush.” He snapped, just getting a saucy waggle of fingers in reply.

“I’m sorry, are you two…?” Doctor Wilson looked between them, trailing off at the end of his question.

“Dating. Yes.” John made a face. “No, I got _this_ using a couple of cars as a springboard.”

“Doing… _what_?!”

“Oh, you heard him!” Sally was beaming, “That idiot jumped a pair of pandas up by Regent’s Park, landed all wrong. Probably lucky it wasn’t worse!”

“Sally.”

“What?”

“Don’t turn into Sherlock, please.”

“Oh, you love me!”

“Yes, to your good fortune! Now be quiet.” He made a dismissive gesture with one hand. The pain meds had obviously kicked in, she was in a very good mood.

“You…jumped a couple of police cars at Regent’s Park? Why on earth would you do that?”

“Part of the job, I’m afraid.” John scratched the back of his neck, “Don’t carry a badge, but I can run a suspect to ground faster than most constables.”

“That’s because you take short-cuts. None of us are brave enough to run rooftops just to cut off a suspect on the run.” Sally shook her head, “I’ve run a couple of times with you, and I don’t know how you do it.”

“Simple.” John grinned at his girlfriend, “Don’t look down.”

“Bastard.”

“Yours, I think?”

“Half a mind to cuff you for that.”

“Be my guest.” She knew she was joking, he knew she was joking, and poor Doctor Wilson was bright red with embarrassment. John felt kind of bad for baiting him like that, but not very sorry. It had been a bad week, trying to track down Seth Robertson before he split town, so who would blame them if they tried to lighten things up a bit?

-&-

An hour later, they were discharged home with instruction-sheets outlining how to care for their respective injuries. A closed reduction had set things proper for poor Sally, John had helped with that when she asked, and she was being sent home with a prescription for a couple of different slings to see what worked best. For now, just a basic shoulder sling to get her home. John could take care of the rest later. John had fired off a text to Mycroft requesting a few things be delivered to Baker Street. His current brace was fine for the cause, but he needed something more substantial for Sally.

By the time he was getting into the car after summoning Franklin, it was nearly six. John had sent word to Greg to let him know that Sally wouldn’t be returning to work until further notice. Tomorrow at the soonest, give her current workload to one of the other DIs until then. If he needed her, he could call on Baker Street. It was a quiet drive back to Baker Street, and when he got back, he was relieved to find the place clean and warm. Mrs Hudson had been up, apparently. John put Sally up in a shoulder support she could wear under her clothes and gave her another dose of pain-killers and ordered her to the couch. About ten minutes later, right as he was debating calling out for dinner, the street-door slammed open and he heard footsteps on the stairs.

“John!” It was Sherlock. Sally tilted her head a bit in confusion. The door flew open and Sherlock appeared loaded with plastic takeaway bags and a soft-sided valise over one shoulder. His eyes were wild and his hair unkempt. John suspected he’d been on the streets doing something questionable.

“Food?”

“Brought Thai.” He grinned a bit madly, “You two look half-beat and after the day you had, I figured you might do with some decent food.”

“Thanks.” John helped him unpack the food in the kitchen. “Working for Mycroft, are you?”

“Mmhm.”

“Right then.” He shrugged and portioned out the massaman curry. “Ooh, you got this from Monkey & Me?”

“It’s your favourite.”

“Yes, it is.” He smiled and looked over his shoulder at Sally, who was curled up on the couch watching trash telly. “Hey, Sal, see if there’s a match on.”

“Should be. Manchester?”

“Ugh.” He finished what he was doing and took out the plates. Sherlock followed with two bottles of beer and a cup of tea for Sally.

“This is for you, Inspector.” He handed her the cup with a smile, “You’re not allowed to drink while you’re taking prescription medications for pain management.”

“You look familiar.” Sally made a face, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Sally, this is Scott Williams. He’s staying with me for a while, you’ll probably see him around.” John realized that Sherlock and Sally hadn’t put eyes on each other much before now, despite numerous occasions in which they had been in close proximity.

“Oh. Nice to meet you.” Sally shook hands with Sherlock, “And, uh, thanks for the food.”

“You’re welcome. Do you need anything else?”

“A reset-button for today would be nice.”

“Hmm. Can’t help you there.” Sherlock made a face and sat down in his chair. John didn’t miss how Sherlock behaved differently with Sally than he had with Greg. There was respect, and an acknowledgement that he couldn’t reveal himself to Sally the way he had to Greg. Also, Sally was important to John and that made her different. Maybe even special.

Dinner was quiet, they watched a bit of a match, Manchester United VS Barcelona, and after clearing their plates, John did the wash-up, Sherlock binned empty containers, combined and stashed leftovers in the clean fridge, and checked on an experiment he was running. Sally, exhausted from her day, disappeared into the bathroom and got ready for bed. It was barely nine, but John knew why she was going to bed so early.

“John?”

“Hmm?” He looked up across the table at Sherlock.

“Did she really not recognise me?” Sherlock looked pointedly at the door to the bathroom. John looked over his shoulder and frowned.

“No, I don’t think she did. But can you blame her? You don’t really look much like yourself. Grow your hair out a bit more and then she’ll recognise you.”

“Well.” A shrug, an eye-roll, and a smile. John chuckled and went to join Sally.

“Yeah. Good night, Sherlock. Please don’t burn the kitchen down.”

“I won’t.” Sherlock waved him off. Satisfied that he could put an end to what had been a very typical, but very bizarre day, John let himself into the bathroom. Going through his routine, he joined Sally in the bedroom and took one side, giving her the other. She slept on her right side to keep pressure off her left shoulder, a body-pillow tucked against her front and another against her back, and John slept with a pillow between his knees. Neither of them slept with their braces on, it was too uncomfortable. Besides, a brace or support worked most effectively during the day, when you were going about your normal daily routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I am NOT trying to be racist here, I promise! Franklin is, if you haven't figured this out, not Caucasian. And the way I describe him is the way John sees him. I mean no disrespect to anyone.


	6. A Question of Our Future Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John runs in the mornings before work, Sherlock is...Sherlock, and Sally has some plans. Work-life balance is so bloody hard to get right sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of ?  
> ::  
> I'm offering this as my entry to the "AO3 FB" fic challenge. I picked this up in my Archive of Our Own (AO3) Writers FB group. Just lovely people there! I'm a writer, so here's what my end of the bargain includes:  
> Write a fic including any/all of the following words:  
> "Three"  
> "Years"  
> "Group"  
> "Birthday" and/or "anniversary"  
> "Celebration"  
> No word limit is required.
> 
> I'm fairly certain I've used each word at least once. Some have been used more frequently, I'm sure. I'll mark the first usage of the prompt-words by underlining them.

* * *

John was two months recovering from hurting himself running down Seth Robertson in Marylebone, but it wasn’t time wasted. He solved a backlog of cold-cases for Sally and Greg and kept up his routine. Sherlock, the observant man that he was, was quick to put the pieces together that Sally and John were a serious thing and he started leaving little hints for John that maybe it was a good idea to make that move. He showed up at Pub Nights with John and on scenes, no one really questioned who he was or why he was part of proceedings, and he struck up a genuine friendship with Sally. It was so weird for John and Greg, who remembered the old days of those two snarling at each other’s throats like wolves, but Sherlock seemed to be making an honest effort to mend fences and relationships with people he hadn’t really gotten on with before. Anderson was a different story, but no one really blamed him for keeping his distance from the forensics specialist.

As part of his rehab, he had started running in the morning before opening the café, and the number of times he caught Sherlock working on an experiment at 4.30am could be listed on both hands. One morning, as he laced up his trainers and checked his watch, he heard a soft shuffle and looked up from the top riser where he sat just outside the door.

“Oh, hey.” Sherlock stood behind him, watching him. “What’s up?”

“Are you running again?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Can I…join you?”

“Sorry?” It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard, it was the request itself. “You want to run with me?”

“Yes.”

“Sure? Can I ask why?”

“I like spending time with you.” Sherlock looked…shy.

“Sherlock, you work the café with me, you help out on cases.”

“I know, but…”

“Yeah, you can join me.” He smiled, understanding that there was a part of his flat-mate that couldn’t really explain why he suddenly wanted to join John on his morning run, but that was okay. Sherlock was already properly dressed in a pair of track-pants and trainers and a light jacket. John finished tying up his shoes and headed down the stairs with Sherlock behind him. It was still quite dark, and he had a headlamp to offer more light on his run.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asked quietly as he took a minute to warm up.

“Just up to Regent’s. I usually run a loop of the park in the morning.”

“What for?”

“Have you ever run before, Sherlock?”

“No? Not like this, I haven’t.”

“I’ll introduce you to the Runner’s High.” He smiled, “I promise I’ll try not to kill you, but if you’re out of shape any, you’ll feel it.” That just got him a dirty look. Chuckling, John took off at a steady trot. He set off in the direction of the park and kept tabs on Sherlock, who was predictably out of shape but stubborn and did his best to keep up with John.

An hour later, he finished his loop of the park and stopped by the gates. Sherlock caught up with him, huffing and cursing under his breath.

“You’re the one who wanted to join me, Sherlock. Not like I put a gun to your head.” He chuckled, “Feel alright?”

“That’s supposed to be fun?” His friend gasped, “I feel like my lungs are on fire!”

“Well, yeah.” He handed over a water-bottle. “Sips.”

“You’re crazy! Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Keeps me in shape for the work I do with The Met.”

“You are far from out of shape, John.” Sherlock drank half the water in a few gulps, “I suppose there are worse things you could do with your mornings.”

“Like chasing a criminal we’ve been after for two weeks and a manhunt across most of the city? Yeah, I’ll take this kind of run instead, thanks.” He looked up at the sky, slowly turning grey at the horizon.

“Ah, but you enjoy running after criminals, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I blame you for that, y’know.” John looked sidelong at Sherlock, who just rolled his eyes. “Come on, let’s get back to the flat.”

“After you, then.” Sherlock handed back the water bottle and they started their homeward circuit. Once back in Baker Street, John took the first shower and got ready for the day. With any luck, there wouldn’t be any excitement today.

It was quiet for…two weeks? Maybe that long. But the upset when it came was neither unwarranted or unwelcome, just unexpected. And really, John should have seen it coming, should have expected it. Well, there were several upsets, some were more welcome than others.

* * *

***

* * *

Sally Donovan stood on the footpath by her car, looking up at the first-story windows of 221B and then quickly over at The Blue Scarf & Belstaff. She had parked on the other side of the street on purpose. Not that a police presence at any time on Baker Street was unusual, but just this once, she didn’t want John to know she was here. Confident as far as sneaking in under her boyfriend’s nose could take her, she gauged traffic and darted between cars, clearing the kerb on the far side. She peeked through the windows of the café, saw John buried in customers, and nodded, confident he wouldn’t notice until she was gone again. A quick look up at the windows again and she caught sight of a tall, familiar figure.

It had taken her a month to put together who Scott Williams really was, but she had never told another soul. It wasn’t her place, after all. And really, it was amazing how much Sherlock Holmes had changed. He was nice to her, nicer than he ever was to anyone except Molly Hooper, and any days of animosity were far behind them. She still felt so terribly guilty for falling for Jim Moriarty’s lies and condemning one of the smartest people she knew to…well, exile. John had never blamed her outright, but she knew he resented her for her part in the whole mess. Shaking her head before she got too lost in memory, Sally used her key and let herself into the quiet flat. Closing the door behind her, she headed up the stairs. At least she knew he was home at all, she really needed to talk to him about something.

“Sherlock?” she called softly as she pushed the door of the flat open.

“Good morning, Sally.”

“Hi. Sorry this is kind of unexpected.” She found him in the kitchen working on…something.

“You didn’t stop by the café, so you obviously aren’t here to see John. He’ll be terribly disappointed in you.” The clever boffin looked up at her and gave her a sharp once-over, eyes narrow. “Hmm. No, this is personal business. It’s about him, but you don’t want him to know you were here.”

“Uh, yeah. If he asks, just…tell him I came by to drop something off.”

“But you don’t have anything?” An eyebrow went up. She brandished a clear evidence-bag and she swore his eyes widened. “Ooh.”

“All yours, if you keep your mouth shut.”

“Oh, you’re a devious woman, Inspector.”

“That’s for the Pendleton case, we’re at a fucking dead-end.” She chucked it at him, “If you can’t solve it, we’re out of luck.”

“You gave me this, I’ll have it solved by end-of-day.”

“Well, you said please, that helps.”

“So, what can I do for you then, Inspector Donovan, that you’ve bought my silence with evidence on a case that hasn’t moved in a month?”

“I…need your opinion on something. It’s about John, it’s why you can’t tell him I was here.” She reached for the box in her pocket, reassuring herself for the untold nth time that it was in fact still there, that it hadn’t migrated elsewhere or fallen out of her pocket. It had not. She had acquired the item about three or four months ago and had never really gotten around to asking the damn question. For one, timing was a problem, and also, it wasn’t usually a question asked by a woman in the first place. Not something this important.

“What’s in your pocket, Inspector?”

“Uh, this.” She pulled the box out and set it on the table between them before shedding her coat and purse, hanging them properly. She wouldn’t stay long, but long enough she could keep the place tidy. While he set aside what he was working on for the new puzzle, she started tea.

“Remind me how long you and John have been dating?”

“Er, we started dating seriously in…July 2012, I think? He traded off between me and Molly Hooper, but they’ve never been more than friends.”

“And you were friends with him before I jumped.”

“I still have nightmares about that night, you know?” She set a cup down by the microscope for him, “Fixed your way. He taught me.”

“You did what you had to, Sally. I’ve never held you responsible for anything that happened during that incident.”

“Sherlock, I almost got you killed. I never deserved to be forgiven for that!” She looked at the box that sat between them on the table, “I can’t believe he ever did forgive me, or give me a chance to…”

“Sally, he knew.” Sherlock touched her hand, grounding her to the present, “He knew I was alive that day, but the uncertainty of my continued safety kept him from ever giving me away to anyone who might still be watching.”

“I guess he knows what a dead body’s supposed to look like, yeah?” She had to laugh. How many times had John nailed a cause-of-death on a study of a body the rest of them had missed? “I have to ask, though. Was that you in the morgue that day? Or was it just someone who looked a lot like you?”

“That was a body-double. I was already on my way to Canada by the time you were forced to identify the body.”

“‘Cause it sure as hell looked like you.”

“We did that on purpose.”

“Figures. Sure fooled me, and a whole city of morons in the process.” She sighed, “Thanks for coming home, Sherlock. He’s been…happier. Took me a while to figure out why he kept smiling so much.”

“But you make him happier than I ever did.”

“Doubt that.”

“Sally, have you met me?” He gave her the look that said “you really are an idiot”, “I am a terrible, insensitive person and it’s amazing I have any friends at all.”

“You’re a bastard, alright, Sherlock Holmes, but you’re our bastard and God help anyone who tries take advantage of you.”

“They’ll have to get past you first?”

“I don’t carry a badge and gun just for shits and giggles, y’know.”

“No, I suppose you don’t. You really are one of the smartest people I know. One of the best.”

“High praise from the genius.”

“I mean that. You’ve always been smart, but I’ve never been nice about it.”

“Look at the rest of ‘em, though. Complete waste of material, some of ‘em.”

“Anderson?”

“Ugh!” Sally shuddered, remembering the disgraced Forensics Specialist she had once dated. “Did you know, he still thinks he has a shot with me? After all these years, he still thinks I’ll dump John and go crawling back to him?”

“Please don’t, you can do so much better.”

“I _am_ doing better, ta.” She sniffed dismissively, “Let him have his idiot wife and whatever unfortunate schmuck got sucked into his lair.” It was quiet for a bit while Sherlock processed that, but he wasn’t so out of touch that he missed her innuendo. He snickered and his eyes lit up.

“Oh, you’re terrible! Just terrible!”

“Yes?”

“Bloody intelligent, genuinely kind, ruthless when you need to be, and a fair sight better than anyone else he ever dated. Please be good to him, Sally.”

“I try to be good to both of us.” She looked at the box again, “Open that box and tell me what you think of it. I’ve spent months agonizing over when and how to give it to him.” Obedient, Sherlock took the box and carefully cracked it open. It was something Sally had received from her grandparents, who knew all about John but still hadn’t managed to meet him properly, much to their chagrin. She suspected that would change soon, seeing as they lived in Oxford now. As she had expected him to, Sherlock laid out the entire history of the ring-set inside the box, all three of them. They were quite old, heirloom for certain, well-cared for in a happy, prosperous marriage. Not always a financially prosperous one, but certainly in other important ways. The rings were not expensive or flashy, they weren’t even gold. The original owners couldn’t afford much at the time they had been purchased, but it was the sentimental value that mattered.

“I take it the owners are still living?”

“Yes, and they’d rather like me to get on with it before they die.” She worried her lip, “See, they know everything about John, but they’ve never met him and they would love to. Even at least once.”

“Perhaps once before a wedding?”

“Something like that.”

“I know almost nothing about your family, which doesn’t seem right, does it?”

“My fault and yours, I suppose.” She tapped the box, “So? What do you think?”

“I take it you’re tired of waiting for him to get around to it?”

“Sherlock, I don’t even think he’s got a ring!”

“No, he doesn’t, but he has thought of it. Quite often.” Sherlock just smiled in that sneaky, soft way of his and closed the box, “Would you like help planning this?”

“Well, I mean…um.” She faltered. Had he just offered to help her plan a proposal? All he did was raise an eyebrow.

“Sally, you don’t know the first thing about this business.”

“And you do?”

“Do either of us? You need help. Who else do you trust?”

“Molly Hooper, maybe?”

“Nah. I’ll take care of it. When were you thinking?”

“Something…low-key? He’s not really, um, well, you know how he is. Not really one about making an unnecessary fuss.”

“Make it mean something.” He closed the box just as the downstairs door slammed. It wasn’t the street-door, it was the inner door of the café.

“Something on, then?” She got up and went to the window as footsteps pounded up the stairs.

“Sally! Sherlock!”

“Oh, look what I missed.” She made a face. Standing outside on the kerb, glaring at his phone like it had personally insulted him, was Greg Lestrade. It was bad when her boss showed up at Baker Street. The door slammed open and John tripped into the flat.

“Get downstairs! This is serious!”

“What happened? Where is it?”

“Greg’s got all the details! Sherlock, get your coat! That can wait, whatever it is!” John was grabbing gear and distributing it while he talked, “Come on, come on! Move!”

“Alright, we’re coming.” She laughed and took her coat from her boyfriend, wondering how soon she could make him her fiancé. As he charged back downstairs, Sherlock slipped the box into her pocket with a sly smile.

“Well, you heard the man.”

“He turned into you.” Sally looked at Sherlock, who just grinned at her.

“Hey! Let’s go, people! We’ve got work in Richmond, move it!” John yelled from the street.

“Yeah, yeah, we heard you the first time.” Sally rolled her eyes, “Take it easy, it’s not the like body’s going to get up and run off on us, is it?”

“Come on!” He was bouncing on his toes as he waited for them. “Sally, you’ll take Sherlock, I’m going in with Greg! Follow us in!”

“You got ‘im, Boss?” She looked at Lestrade, who pocketed his phone and gave a brisk nod. As she cleared traffic with Sherlock a step behind, she ran through every case they had on the roster. This was a big break for something, some case, but…which one?

“I wonder if they cracked the Branton case.” Sherlock murmured as they got into her car and followed the silver BMW Lestrade had driven as long as Sally had known him.

“It’s got to be, and we’ve been sitting on that one for a month! That one and the Pendleton case.” She sighed, keeping pace with Greg’s car and flanked by a pair of pandas.

“Which means this went from missing persons to homicide.”

“Yep. And Mitchell Branton’s head is mine.” She thought of the smug, aristocratic Mitchell Phineas Christopher Branton, Prime Suspect #1 and untouchable because they had absolutely no evidence linking him to either the death or disappearance of his wife Samantha. He had gloated that they couldn’t touch him, couldn’t nail him with a damn thing, and he’d be happy to see them in court, as he walked out of it free as a bird. So Sally had pushed her team past the point of no return, past exhaustion and empty stomachs, gathering anything she could to try and get a conviction. She had all the warrants she needed, just no probable cause. But now? She might just have all the probable cause she needed to make those warrants worth the paper they were printed on and a chance to put a disgusting criminal away for at least a few years. If they could get him for kidnapping and murder, even if it was hired, that would send him away behind bars for quite a while.

 

When they pulled up to a tape-line at a familiar house, Sally looked at Sherlock and grinned.

“Oh, we’ve got his sorry arse good and proper. Would you look at that?”

“He can’t possibly be that stupid.”

“Might just be our lucky day! Come on!” She kicked her door open and cleared the line with Sherlock right behind her, she held the line for him and waved off the hovering constable.

“He’s with me, O’Brian. Hands off.”

“Yes’m.” God bless her constables, they weren’t about to question her bringing an outsider on the scene. It wasn’t the first time her lot had seen Sherlock anyway, they just didn’t know it was him. That was fine. They bypassed a fuming Philip Anderson, who did not like having John and Sherlock around. He never really had, they could both do his job in half the time with a fraction of the resources and regularly made him look like an idiot. Which, to be fair, he kind of was. Sally still questioned what in God’s good name she had ever seen in him. He wasn’t even halfway attractive, she must have been depressingly desperate at the time.

“Watson’s here.” Anderson snarled.

“Yes, he is. And if you don’t shut your trap, I’ll give him your job once and for all, Anderson.” She looked at her one-time partner as she suited up, “He’s smarter than you, faster on a cause-of-death than you are, and a bloody sight better in bed than you ever were. Don’t ever badmouth my boyfriend again or that’s harassment.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try and stop me, see if I’m joking.” She brushed him off and headed up to the first floor of the house, where she could hear John and Lestrade’s voices.

“Oh, that’s just mean.” Sherlock giggled.

“I regret nothing but the time I wasted trying to get that idiot’s attention.”

“Thank god for John Watson.”

“Amen.” She huffed, clearing the top of the stairs. John met her at the top, he always did if he managed to get to a scene before she did, looking fit to murder. She guessed either idiot Anderson or the very stupid Mitchell Branton, possibly both given his current mood.

“Found her.” He pointed at the open door of the bedroom down the hall. “Said it. Three times, I said it.”

“Yes, you did. Of course you were right.” She stepped past him and went into the room. “Any sign of the husband?”

“Nope. Can’t be too far, though, knowing him.” John folded his arms across his chest, “I hate being right.”

“No, you don’t.” She rolled her eyes, “You hate being right about things like this.” Circling the body, she looked up and across at Sherlock, “Alright, Holmes, your turn. Work your magic.”

“Yes’m. Two minutes?”

“Three. I’m feeling generous.” She shrugged. Sherlock shot her a boyish, cute grin she’d seen a lot more of in the last couple of months than she ever had before 2011, and it got very quiet in the room as he studied the body and the evidence around the room. Nothing had been touched or moved and there were almost no evidence-markers placed. Those would be put down after Sherlock had done his bit.

“Three minutes, Holmes.” Lestrade marked the time. “What’ve you got for us?” As was his habit, Sherlock looked at the body again and got to his feet, pacing as he talked, mostly to himself, spitting out everything he had observed and deduced. It was poetry in chaotic motion to watch, Sally and John obediently took notes, and when Sherlock was done, he took a moment to look not at Lestrade but at Sally. She was the one who’d brought him in on the case this time. She nodded and he was gone in a whirl of that ridiculous coat of his. She was pretty sure he was baiting the people of London flouncing around in the Belstaff. As a door slammed somewhere else in the house, she looked at John.

“What are they waiting for?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” He shrugged, “Guess we should look into getting Branton in cuffs, then.”

“Yeah, if he hasn’t buggered off already.” She went to the window and looked out to see Sherlock brush off a fuming Anderson. He was halfway out of sight when he suddenly froze, fixed on something they couldn’t see from the window. Before she could do more than look at John, their phones buzzed in tandem right as Sherlock disappeared at a sprint.

**Branton sighted clear of the line. Move. – SH**

“Well, what were you expecting?” John sighed and pocketed his phone, giving Lestrade a brief nod before he disappeared.

“You’d better go after ‘em.” Lestrade raked a gloved hand through his hair, “I’ll give this to Anderson and shut it down.”

“Thanks, boss.” Sally hurried out behind John, taking a minute to get rid of her PPE gear and move the rings to a safer location. Her grandfather’s ring went onto the chain around her neck, her grandmother’s remained in the box and was moved to an inner pocket.

“Sally!” John yelled from the street. Making sure she had her badge, gun, and wallet, Sally ran after him. They took off after Sherlock, Sally called a few cars for backup and kept up with John, who was hard on Sherlock like a hound on a scent. They hadn’t had a good foot chase in a while, but that didn’t mean any of them were out of shape. Sally kept pace with the Baker Street detectives, and when John suddenly veered off in a different direction, she caught Sherlock shouting over his shoulder.

“Rooftops, rooftop! Run him!” The tall boffin yelled before he tore around a corner in pursuit of a very guilty Mitchell Branton. Sally nodded and pulled off to follow John. Running a suspect street-level was one thing, she hated running rooftops, John knew this, Sherlock knew this. But it was a necessary evil if they wanted to bring Branton to justice.

“Oh, they’re going to owe me for this.” She muttered as she climbed up a fire-escape after John.

“Come on, Sal! We’re losing them!” He hollered, halfway across the block by the time she cleared the ladder. Reminding herself not to look down, she took off after her boyfriend and they tracked the street-level pair for almost half a mile before going to ground again. The pursuit took them towards Chiswick Bridge, Sally had the sneaky feeling Branton would try to lose them by jumping into the river. But she had called on the River Police for additional back-up just in case he did try, so there wasn’t much chance of him getting past them.

“Police, Met Police! Stop!” She yelled ahead to Branton, who looked over his shoulder at the pursuit and put on speed.

“Fuck.” She’d expected him to do that. They cornered him on the bridge and Sally watched John catch up with him first, engage him, and felt a moment of blind panic when both men went over the sided.

“John!” She and Sherlock yelled his name at the same time, in the same panicked tone of voice, looking over the railing together. Sally holstered her gun, spared Sherlock a quick look, and balanced on the rail before she heaved herself over.

“Sally!” Sherlock yelled as she headed into the water. She wasn’t going in for Branton, she was going for John. It didn’t take long to surface, and she struck out for the boys. Branton, desperate to escape, was trying to keep John underwater long enough to drown him, and exhausted from running, it wouldn’t take long. Sally ached from the pursuit, and the swim, but she grabbed him by the collar when she got to them and pulled, using the current as she spun and dragged Branton away from John. An MPU cutter caught up with them and they were all three hauled from the water. They had to force water from John’s system, but he came around coughing and gasping, and Sally turned him onto his side. John heaved onto his stomach and she pulled him onto hands and knees. Someone tossed blankets around their shoulders and Sally put an arm around her boyfriend, leaning against him as much as she could without hurting him. When he could get a decent breath, he turned his head and blinked at her.

“Sally?”

“You’re an idiot, John Watson.”

“Yeah.” He coughed, “Pretty sure I’m _your_ idiot, Inspector.”

“And absolutely no good to me dead.” She threw both arms around him as he straightened and swore to get him home and dry as soon as possible.

“What, did you have plans or something?” He made a wet sound that turned out to be a laugh. She rolled her eyes and held him close as they were steered back towards land. Off to one side of them, the lads were taking good care of Branton.

“It’s your good fortune we were able to pull John Watson from the river alive, Mr Branton.” Stanley Hopkins said darkly, standing over the wet, handcuffed suspect with a murderous look on his face, “Or you’d have become the single most-wanted man in London. Maybe the whole fucking country. You might not have gotten out of the river alive yourself.” Sally looked at John and smiled. Stanley Hopkins was a Marine Policing Unit sergeant who was very fond of John Watson, and very protective of his relationship with Sally. She wasn’t quite sure what the draw was, but she had never questioned Hopkins’ loyalty to John. He was very popular at The Met, there were very few people who legitimately disliked him. It was his boyish charm and good looks, she suspected, he really was very handsome and almost too kind to people. And completely spoken for. Everyone knew that, but that didn’t stop the female officers from some harmless flirting. A few blokes tried their luck with the handsome veteran, never getting very far for obvious reasons.

When they got to the nearest dock, Sally had John on his feet with an arm around him. Sherlock and Lestrade were among those waiting for them, and their expressions were identically murderous when they took in the sight of John wrapped in blankets and towels. He wouldn’t require a hospital visit, but he would definitely need to be looked at by paramedics.

“I feel almost sorry for Branton,” John muttered, ruffling his hair. “If looks could kill.”

“He’d be a dead man thrice.” Sally hugged him, “You’re a lucky fool, John.”

“Yeah, didn’t mean to go for a swim.”

“I know you didn’t. That’s why I went after you.” She steadied him as they tied up at the jetty and gave him a hand onto the dock. Sherlock was there to pull him onto dry if not stable ground and turned to give Sally a boost. There was no argument as they were hustled off to a waiting ambulance. Sally was quick to clear, John took a bit longer. He did not need to go in, but the paramedics were very thorough. Considering he had ingested river water, they warned for observation of a number of symptoms. The most likely suspects would be Legionnaire’s disease or Pontiac fever, Norovirus, or Giardia. Once cleared by the paramedics, Sherlock took John home, promising Sally they would get their reports in eventually. She wasn’t in a hurry, really. They had Branton, and he had some questions needed answering. Sally would let Lestrade do the talking for that, she had to get cleaned up. Getting back to the office, she grabbed a change of clothes and took a shower.

-&-

Three hours later, she was eyeballs deep in paperwork when the door banged open. Baker Street, then. A manila folder landed on her cluttered desk with a muffled smack and something metallic jangled. Not handcuffs, too soft for that.

“You lost this.”

“Hmm?” She finally looked up to see John standing on the other side of her desk, clean, dry, and looking very…confused. The file, when she glanced at it, was completed reports from John and Sherlock. Right, they kept stacks in the flat. “Lost what?”

“You lost this.” He held something out to her with one hand, and she suddenly felt something awful slide into her stomach.

“Oh my god.” It was the chain she’d put her grandfather’s ring on. She hadn’t even noticed she’d lost it, which was terrible and embarrassing.

“Looks pretty valuable. Probably don’t want to lose that, do you?”

“Uh, no? Where did…”

“Chiswick Pier. Found it on Hopkins’ cutter. He returned it to me so I could give it back to you.” He gave the chain back to her and slumped into the chair on the other side of the desk. Sally went into her desk for the box and carefully opened it, looking at the set before replacing the ring.

“What’s that?” John had noticed her rummaging.

“Oh. Nothing.”

“Liar.” He picked up a report and looked it over before grabbing a biro and getting to work.

“It’s my grandparents’ rings is all.”

“I was right, then?”

“Very valuable.” She shrugged and put the box away safely. Someday. Not today, not soon. Someday. It was quiet in her office as they worked in a familiar, companionable silence. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the ring, and how uncomfortably close she’d come to losing not only the ring but John today. It was quiet until another call came in, John excused himself and told her to stay in touch. If she needed a warm body, she could call Sherlock.

“Go home, John. I’ll see you later.” She saw him to the street and hugged him. It scared her to think of what might have gone wrong on Chiswick Bridge if Branton had pulled a gun on John or on any of them, if they hadn’t pulled John from the river and been able to revive him. It wasn’t until the cab was out of sight that Sally found her own car and responded to the call that had come in, making sure her team was on the move as necessary. She ended up needing Sherlock, who showed up in record time and was sure to let her know that he had left John sleeping off the earlier excitement. It would be up to Sherlock and Mrs Hudson to run the café until he felt more himself, which would be a day or two at this rate, which was just fine. Thanking Sherlock for being such a good friend, Sally put the clever detective to work.

It was past midnight before they could get away again and he treated her to a late dinner at their favourite Chinese before taking her home to Baker Street. John had fallen asleep in the back bedroom, undisturbed by much of anything, so Sally joined him and left Sherlock to his own devices.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, Sally.”

“Thanks for helping out, you were damn useful.”

“Always a pleasure.” Sherlock just smiled as she left the kitchen. It was quiet in the bedroom and John did not wake up as she went through her routine and got into bed. He stirred and rolled over in his sleep, pressing up against her back. She smiled and took the hand that snaked over her hip, pressing a kiss to scarred knuckles that told a story of a lifetime of action.

* * *

 


	7. A Question of Our Future Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes back from the dead. More or less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, His Highness is back. He's been back for a while, but now he's BACK back. Back to business as usual for Baker Street. And when the hell is Sally going to ask John that damn question?! Come on, girl! Ask already, he's not exactly going to say no, is he?

* * *

A week after taking Mitchell Branton into custody for the murder of his wife, Sally and John were once again in Sally’s office doing paperwork for a new case. Sally was wearing her grandfather’s ring on the chain again and messed with it as she worked. John watched her from the corner of his eye, smiling in that soft way of his when he caught her doing something domestic. He never said anything when he caught her doing these things, he just looked at her and smiled and shook his head fondly. Sally wondered what she had ever done to earn his trust, his loyalty, and, perhaps the most important thing, his love and affection. They had been friends before the scandal that toppled so many careers and had remained friends after, taking their friendship to another level and making it official as a couple. Occasionally, she shared him with Molly Hooper, usually to run off another loser boyfriend. Lestrade and his husband were known to take turns serving as Molly’s date if the occasion called for it, which it did sometimes. That train of thought was derailed as her door opened and Lestrade poked his head in. He looked for Sally and turned his attention to John next, he was obviously looking for one or both of them.

“Oh, good. There you are, John.”

“Greg.”

“If you two aren’t terribly busy, I need you.”

“What for?” Sally looked up at her boss, “I thought you’d already done the interviews for the Thompkins case.” Which is what they were working on at the moment. It was a murder, crime-of-passion case that Sherlock had actually squealed when they let him take a look. It had been a case of jealousy, a slighted wife taking her revenge on her unfaithful husband and his new mistress. He apparently had a string of them, being of a rather broad taste regarding his women. Emmerick Thompkins had been a special kind of despicable, about on the scale of Sherlock’s old uni ex-boyfriend Victor Trevor, who hadn’t been heard from in a while and was not missed. But John and Sally had agreed that the way Thompkins died hadn’t been…well, it had been rather gruesome and ruthless. So, after identifying his wife as the primary suspect, they’d pulled her in for questioning. Again.

“Oh, that was easy. She folded like origami paper. Absolute sodding moron.” Lestrade shook his head, “Nah, Heather Thompkins will be going away for a very long time. No, I need you for the press conference.”

“Press conference?” Sally traded a look with John. “It wasn’t that high-profile, was it?”

“It’s not about the Thompkins case, this is completely unrelated. But I need you two there, so get moving.”

“Okay?” She watched him leave again and looked at John.

“What was that about?”

“Not a fucking clue. Come on, before he comes back.” She got up from her desk and made sure she had everything. When they got down to the Press Room, Sally noticed the stage set up and the gathered throng of press.

“Whoa. What’s going on?”

“Not a clue.” John peeked over her shoulder, “That’s a lot of people for a small press conference. Did we miss a memo?”

“We missed something.” She had one hand on the handle when someone called her name.

“Inspector Donovan, you’ll come with me, ma’am.”

“Anthea?” John recognised the woman who had stopped them. Sally did, too. It was Mycroft Holmes’s PA.

“Green Room. Now.” She didn’t say another word, turning on them and walking away. Sally shrugged and headed after the mysterious, aloof woman. John tagged along after her and they were split up outside of the prep-rooms.

“Five minutes, Inspector.” Anthea said without looking up from her Blackberry, “I’ll knock.”

“Okay?” Sally caught sight of the uniform hanging on a hook and wondered what the hell was going on. Whatever was going on, it was important. Someone had been smart enough to elect the trouser-option, bless them. Sally sighed and got changed. It wouldn’t take her five minutes, it barely took her two. A brisk knock on the door was Anthea. Sally met up with John, Sherlock, Lestrade, and Mycroft Holmes below the stage entrance. That’s when it made sense. This wasn’t just a press conference, this was Sherlock Holmes returning from the dead three months after he’d returned from Germany.

John looked smashing in a neat khaki No 2 Dress uniform from the Army with ribbon bars to indicate which medals and honours he had collected over his years of service, regimental lanyards, and a brown leather Sam Browne belt. He wore a navy blue beret with the red-and-white feather hackle and cap-badge for the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers. John was no longer active-duty, Mycroft must have arranged a dispensation for him to wear the uniform for the press conference. Mycroft wore his standard get-up of a dark-grey pinstriped suit with waistcoat and watch-chain. Lestrade wore the same uniform Sally did, and Sherlock looked handsome. Handsome was the word that came to mind. A black bespoke two-piece suit, the purple shirt just fitted to the bare edge of pulled buttons but not obscenely with the collar buttons undone three down, a _new_  Belstaff, a new scarf, blue of course, and…the hat. Anthea was holding the deerstalker! Sally couldn’t help a short giggle at the sight of that stupid hat.

“You can’t be serious!”

“It’s the Sherlock Holmes hat. I wear the damn hat.”

“After you!” She smiled, “You do look rather fetching in it, though.” All she got for that was an eye-roll. Some things would never change. She got the feeling Sherlock would never forgive her for buying that hat all those years ago. It had been her idea, sort of a gag-gift, a jab at his greater intelligence and infallibility, his pride. The look on his face at that last press conference had been so worth it, she had a picture somewhere of him putting the hat on looking like he wanted to kill everyone in the room. As far as John was concerned, Sally tried not to stare, tried to remember if she’d ever seen him in uniform before outside of photographs. She had a couple, carefully collected from internet research and a very careful rummage in some of his stored boxes at Baker Street. Any pictures taken from hard-copy were duplicates of originals carefully returned to their right places before he ever noticed them missing. She regretted nothing and didn’t consider it “stealing”, in the basest sense of the word.

“Mr Holmes.” An aide got their attention, beckoning to Mycroft. There was a taped X-mark on the stage at the top of the stairs leading out onto the stage, that’s where they waited. Mycroft first, followed by Lestrade. Those two went out at the mark and addressed the gathered press, while Anthea and the nameless aide lined up John, Sally, and Sherlock. It was Sally first, then John, a thirty-second pause between each of them, and a full minute before Sherlock was sent out. Their job was simple: go out on stage, not a word to anyone, answer no questions, and stay in the indicated spots marked by taped X’s. Each X-mark on the stage was labelled with a name, so they would know where to stand. Right before she was sent up to wait outside the curtain, Sally took the deerstalker from Anthea and gave it to Sherlock.

“Put that on right before you come out.”

“Why not as I come out?”

“Go for the theatrics? Might as well, suits your style anyway, doesn’t it? Nothing done without a bit of dramatic flair.” She chuckled and smoothed her expression as she turned to the curtain. Lestrade called her name and she stepped out, giving the brim of her bowler cap a quick tug. She hated this kind of thing and squinted against the flood of flash-bulbs. She found her mark and stood on it, and waited. This was a rather formal event, Lestrade had called her to the stage and read off a litany of every honour she had ever earned on the force, and a couple she had earned elsewhere. John got the same treatment, called onto the stage by Mycroft who read off a much longer list of honours. Sally knew about most of them, but the Victoria Cross was a surprise. There was a hell of a story behind that one. Once John was in place, Mycroft got everyone’s attention and turned to the curtain again.

“And last, our guest of honour. A man of unmatched intelligence and skill. His services rendered in the name of the Crown are many and varied. Ladies and gentlemen, Sherlock Holmes.” Oh, if the crowd didn’t just go completely wild. Mycroft read off a couple of Sherlock’s collected honours and Sally traded a quick, side-eyed glance with John. How in the world had that tall maniac escaped a knighthood so far? It wasn’t humility, Sherlock was one of the proudest people Sally had ever met. It probably had something to do with the fact that, despite his love for theatrics and being the centre of attention working a case, Sherlock honestly _hated_ public recognition for anything he did. The limelight and public eye was not his favourite thing. All of those honours must have been granted in private ceremony, word would have certainly gotten out otherwise, and his name withheld from the gazettes somehow. Well, he did look very handsome as he stopped on his labelled mark just to his brother’s right and a bit behind. Mycroft opened the floor to questions, fielding most of them. And oh were there questions. One was directed at Sherlock, who had a very simple answer to a rather rudely-asked question.

“Mr Holmes! What do you have to say for yourself for these past three years?”

“Not dead, and none of your fucking business.” And he said _that_ with a straight face! And somehow, _somehow_ , Sally, John, and Sherlock maintained straight faces. But it was kind of hard. Someone tried to ask John a question and was quickly shot down. The only people on the stage answering questions were the Holmes brothers and Lestrade. John and Sally were off limits. Which annoyed the press. Getting out of the office was going to be a nightmare, but Sally suspected Mycroft had plans to keep them safe from nosy, unruly journos.

-&-

When the conference was called to a close a few questions later, John and Sally were quick to get Sherlock off the stage and out of sight. Without a word to anyone else, they escaped upstairs to Sally’s office, slammed the door, and quickly locked it. The whole place would be roaring in a while, and Sally was plotting a quick escape when a knock on the door got her attention. She cracked it open and saw Anthea.

“Time to go.”

“Bless you. Come on, boys.” She slipped out with the boys right behind and doubled back to grab the box from her desk. Locking her office, everything else could wait, she pocketed the box discretely. Anthea led the way out and they rendezvoused with a couple of cars in the underground car-park.

“That’s for you. The driver will take you anywhere you wish to go.” Anthea pointed to the second car and ducked into the first. Sally ushered the boys in and hopped in after John.

“Baker Street, please, Frederick,” Sherlock spoke to the driver, who nodded and said nothing to them as he got the car underway. It wasn’t until they were well-clear of The Met that any of them dared to breathe. A communal sigh of relief turned into a fit of chuckling started by John.

“Oh. My god.” He huffed, “That was quite possibly the most _ridiculous_ thing I’ve ever done!”

“And you invaded Afghanistan!” Sherlock chimed in, giggling.

“Oh, that wasn’t just me! Not just me by a long bloody shot!” John made a face. “Wanker.”

“Boys, boys, you’re both pretty.” Sally scolded, glad she was sitting between the flat-mates.

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Fucking gorgeous, it’s a shame you have such a bad attitude about things.” She grinned at Sherlock, who had become a very dear friend in the last few months.

“Well, I can’t help it if most people I meet are useless idiots who somehow learned to tie their own shoes properly and not trip over themselves.” He sniffed dismissively. Sally looked at John and snickered. That was very true.

 

Once back at Baker Street, the driver held the door for them. Even before they got out, Sally could hear the commotion.

“Bloody vultures.” She muttered. John poked his head out and made a face.

“Not many of them, but enough to make a racket. Mrs Hudson’s not going to be very happy. I’ll go first.”

“Good idea.” Sally pulled on Sherlock and let John get out of the car first. Sherlock got out next and Sally was right behind him. Between Sally and John, there weren’t going to be very many people that desperate for a better look at Sherlock newly returned to the public eye to risk either of them taking a swing. John’s reputation with the press was memorable and they usually gave him a pretty wide berth regardless. And today? It would be a very bold journo to approach John in uniform. The minute John showed himself, cameras flashed and questions were shouted. Sally shared a look with the boys and they made an agreement not to say anything or even acknowledge them until they’d gotten to the door. John got the door open in one try and held the door for them. As soon as they were gathered on the stoop, Sally and John blocking a clear view to Sherlock who stood inside the doorway and John on the step while Sally stood on the footpath, they faced the gathered, eager media.

“We’ve answered your questions, you know what happened. None of us is obligated to speak to any of you, and we aren’t going to. Sherlock Holmes is alive, he has returned to London, he will return to his work as a detective in time, and that is absolutely _all_ any of you vultures need to know. Good day.” John said calmly, in that tone of voice that indicated he was in a foul mood.

“Inspector.”

“Captain.” Sally did not smile as she stepped past him into the house. He locked the door against all comers and Sherlock ran upstairs to pull the curtains across the windows. Sally was right behind him.

“Mrs Hudson, do not answer the door for anyone!” John called as he came up the stairs, “If it’s important, we’ll let you know!”

“What would be considered important, dear?”

“Mycroft or Greg. Absolutely no one else gets through that door, do you understand?”

“Yes, of course. Awful lot, aren’t they?” Mrs Hudson came up with tea, took in the sight of the three of them all tarted up, and smiled. “Well, don’t you three look properly handsome? That was a delightful press conference, you were all so perfectly serious about things.”

“Not that we owe them the pleasure of a smile.” Sherlock shed and hung the coat and scarf and tossed the hat onto the skull. He headed upstairs to the second bedroom that had more or less become his, kissing Sally and then Mrs Hudson on the cheek as he passed them. Sally rolled her eyes at him and reached back, swatting him on the hip as he took the stairs two at a time. He just wagged his fingers at her, eyes too bright to be serious. John rolled his eyes as he headed for the back bedroom, undoing the buttons of his uniform. Sally grinned and gave Mrs Hudson a hug.

“Be right back, Mrs H.” She called over her shoulder as she followed John. It took the same amount of time to get out of uniform as it had to get into it and Sally was glad to exchange her uniform for denims and a jumper. She skipped any underwear, seeing as she had no plans to go out again and she was past her period by a week. When she pulled the jumper over her head after putting on a cami, she didn’t miss John’s smug smile.

“Yeah? So what?”

“I keep forgetting you’re as much of an exhibitionist as Sherlock is when you feel like it. A bit of rebellion today, Inspector?”

“You got a problem with that, Captain?”

“Nope! I like your cheeky streak.” He smiled and kissed her, one hand on the doorknob. He had opted for denims and a regimental t-shirt. Going out to the sitting-room, they found Sherlock sitting in his chair, dressed in his usual uniform of pyjama bottoms, tee-shirt, and dressing-gown. The tee-shirt was turned inside out to keep the tags and seams from irritating his skin. Sally knew for intimate fact that the clever boffin typically slept in the nude, and was used to seeing him lounging around the flat in a bedsheet and not much else. He didn’t do it very often, being a bit shy of his scars acquired during his time away, but some habits never really went away.

 

After the ground-breaking press conference and the revelation that Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead, having never actually  _been_ dead in the first place, they took a quiet night in and any comers were turned away. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about consequences and putting things in order. And really, it was just the rest of the world that had to worry about those things, life would go on for the residents of Baker Street as it had for the past three months.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm offering this as my entry to the "AO3 FB" fic challenge. I picked this up in my Archive of Our Own (AO3) Writers FB group. Just lovely people there! I'm a writer, so here's what my end of the bargain includes:  
> Write a fic including any/all of the following words:  
> "Three"  
> "Years"  
> "Group"  
> "Birthday" and/or "anniversary"  
> "Celebration"  
> No word limit is required.
> 
> I'm fairly certain I've used each word at least once. Some have been used more frequently, I'm sure. I'll mark the first usage of the prompt-words by underlining them.


	8. A Question of Our Future Pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets an idea and talks to his sister. The talk doesn't go so well. The aftermath OF the talk? That goes a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some angst ahead. John and Sally finally get around to having THAT talk, and end up talking about other things that made them the people they are now.

* * *

John, a more observant person than he got credit for from those who didn’t know him very well, knew his girlfriend had  _something_ up her sleeve, something planned, but not what or how long she’d had it planned. Sherlock knew, whatever it was, the smug bastard would look at him and just smile like he knew the greatest secret in the world. Sally slowly started moving her things out of her current flat and into Baker Street, prompting Sherlock and John to get to work on refinishing the basement flat to make it livable. John wasn’t interested in moving out of Baker Street and Sally didn’t seem to mind the idea of living there. With help from contractors hired by Mycroft, doing a majority of the work themselves because they felt like it, they rebuilt the basement.

Mrs Hudson was thrilled to hear they were moving things along but lamented that John and Sally didn’t seem interested in moving their relationship forward. It wasn’t that money was a factor, it was more a problem of finding something suitable for Sally and finding the time to ask. He suspected she had something of a similar nature planned and wondered if he couldn’t sneak in a proposal of his own, each of them do the asking in their own way? Hmm. So, without a word to Sally or Sherlock, opting out of telling his flat-mate anything because he knew Sherlock and Sally were in cahoots and he couldn’t say a word without one finding out from the other, John did some searching. It required him to make a phone-call he really,  _really_ wasn’t looking forward to, but he did it anyway.

 

So, between customers one slow morning at The Blue Scarf, John dialled a number he hadn’t had reason to call in years. Crossing his fingers as he stepped into the store-closet behind the counter, he hoped he wouldn’t get voice-mail or worse get hung up on. Just when he thought he was being ignored and was about to hang up anyway, the line clicked over.

 _“’Lo?”_  Shit. Was she drunk again? He checked his watch and frowned. It was barely eleven in the morning. But this  _was_ his sister, it would surprise him more to find she was sober than stinking drunk at this hour.

“Uh, Harry?” He coughed, “Is this a bad time?”

 _“Who is this?”_ He’d woken her up, the question was had it been from a hangover?

“It’s your brother. John Watson? Harry, have you been drinking again?” There was such a long pause he thought she’d hung up on him, she’d done that before. Sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose. It was one reason he didn’t call her often or visit.

_“Uh, wait. Why are you calling me?”_

“Jesus Christ. Harry, are you with anyone right now? Is there someone with you right now?”

_“Maybe. Why?”_

“Is Clara there, by any chance?” Better talk to his transient sister-in-law, she’d be the stable one in the equation this time.

_“Yeah, but why’d you wanna talk to her?”_

“Because you’re not making any sense and I need a straight answer to something.”

_“Well, why the fuck can’t you ask me?”_

“Because I don’t know if you’re sober. I can’t tell if I woke you up from a hangover or not.”

 _“I am_ not _drunk!”_

“Sure don’t sound sober to me.”

_“Fine, talk to my wife, you always liked her more.”_

“I like Clara because she doesn’t treat either of us like shit. She’s nice to  _me,_  which is more than I can say for a lot of people. Hand her the phone, please?”

_“Why should I?”_

“Because unless you remember where Mum’s ring is, you’re not going to be much help to me, are you?”

_“Why d’you want Mum’s ring anyway?”_

“Because I might have use for it? Not sure why that would be any of your business. Harry, either tell me what you did with Mum’s ring or hand the phone to Clara. I need an answer, sooner than next century.”

_“It’s around here somewhere. Why don’t you come over and get it?”_

“Because the last time I visited yours, it made Baker Street look  _good_. Not to mention the way you treated  _me_.” She did have a point though. It was easier to explain why he wanted his mother’s old ring-set in person. Especially if Clara was there.

_“We’ve cleaned the place. I honestly don’t remember where it is. Clara hid it from me.”_

“Smart woman. You’re still on Parliament Hill, right?”

_“We haven’t moved in the last four months.”_

“Good. Then I’ll see you in ten minutes, fifteen if traffic misbehaves.”

_“Oh, John?”_

“Yeah?”

_“Is it true?”_

“Is what true?”

_“What the media says?”_

“I’ll explain when I get there. See you in fifteen.” He hung up with his sister and collected his coat and pocketed his mobile and wallet. He checked for his SIG but didn’t have it. Upstairs, right. He sighed and informed Mrs Hudson that he was going out.

“Case, dear?”

“Nope. Personal business. I’m going up to Hampstead to visit my sister.”

“Oh, is everything alright?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson. I’m not being asked to bail her out or anything.” He smiled, “Be back later.”

“Of course, dear!” His land-lady just smile at him and patted him on the hip as he slipped out. Running upstairs, he fetched his gun from the coffee-table and checked on Sherlock, who was buried in an experiment.

“Where are you going?”

“To visit Harry and Clara.”

“Why on earth would you put yourself through that misery? You can’t stand your sister.” Sherlock looked up at that. John just levelled him with a look. Sherlock tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes, studying John.

“Oh. You need something she has.”

“Yep.”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“If she’s somehow misplaced your mother’s ring, what will you do?”

“Buy my own.” He sighed and rubbed the table-top, “How long have you known, Sherlock?”

“Two months.”

“And you never said anything.”

“I didn’t think you would appreciate any input.”

“I couldn’t trust you to keep your mouth shut, Sherlock. You and Sally talk about  _everything_  these days, me included.”

“You didn’t  _trust_ me?”

“I’m not an idiot. You’re helping her plan something that’s none of my business until she makes it my business, and I don’t want to worry about you slipping up and telling her something I’d rather she didn’t know.” He looked up at Sherlock, “I don’t want to know.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back later, Sherlock.” He wasn’t looking forward to the visit to his sister’s at all, “Stay out of trouble.”

“I make no promises!”                                                                           

“Never do, you berk.” He sighed, “Let me know if you go out on a case!”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock called as he headed down the stairs. Going out, he hailed a cab and directed the driver to his sister’s place in Hampstead.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in front of his sister’s flat. The cab had already driven away, no turning back now. God he didn’t want to be here, but Harry had Mum’s ring. At least, he hoped she had the ring. Resigned to an unpleasant, hopefully short visit, John rang the bell. He had to ring twice before anyone came to the door. Harry came, threw the door open, and walked away again. Great.

“Nice to see you, too, Hal.” He muttered, letting himself in and making sure the door was secure behind him.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Jesus, I don’t need this.” He groaned. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“Then why the hell are you here?” She turned on him like a snake.

“Because you have Mum’s ring! You should, at any rate, God help you if you sold it off!”

“Why do you even care about that ring?” Harry looked at him, clearly inebriated, “Why do you need it?”

“Because my girlfriend deserves something nice. And even if my memories of Mum aren’t good ones, the history behind that ring-set sure is.” He folded his arms, “Now, do you have it around here or not?”

“I told you. Clara hid it from me.”

“Probably to keep you from selling it off for booze-money. Smart woman.” He refused to look away from his sister, “Is Clara here? Because I’m leaving if she’s not, I do not have to put up with your bad behaviour and foul mood because you don’t have an easy target to pick on otherwise.”

“John!” Clara Oswin’s voice broke up the tension and John turned on his sister-in-law like radar. She came down the stairs from the flat Harry and Clara had shared on and off for years. “Hi! She said you were coming to visit!”

“Clara. Hi.” He hugged his sister-in-law, privately thinking Clara could do so much better. Deserved so much better.

“Can you stay long? Clara asked neutrally, knowing damn well she’d interrupted a sibling spat. Before John could come up with an excuse not to stay, his phone buzzed. It was either Sally or Sherlock, one of the two. In either case, it was the escape he needed.

“Oh, look. Loyal Dog Watson runs when called.” Harry sneered. John ignored her, counting to five in his head as he read the text-string. One each from both people in question, for the same reason. Sally had a case, she wanted Baker Street involved. He nodded, sent back a confirmation, and promised to meet them at the location. Pocketing his phone, he looked at Clara, ignoring his sister for a minute.

“Sorry, Clara. Gotta go.”

“Oh, that’s fine. It’s work you enjoy doing, and you’re good at it, too. The Met this time?”

“Yep. Wanted Baker Street involved.” He shrugged, “Sorry to dash.”

“Don’t apologise. I’m glad you bothered. Here, this is for you. I found it in my safe.” She handed John a small box, “Heard you were looking for it.”

“Oh, thank you, Clara.” He quickly pocketed the box, kissed Clara on the cheek, and shot his sister a look, “See you.”

“Bye, John! Take care of yourself!” Clara went out to the street with him, “Say hi to Sally for me, will you?”

“Absolutely!” he turned to look at his sister-in-law, “Why’d you think I asked for Mum’s rings?”

“Ooh! Clever boy! She hasn’t asked yet, has she?”

“No, but she’s going to. I’ll let her have her fun, it’s keeping Sherlock out of trouble for once.”

“You lucky bastard. I can’t believe he’s really back.”

“Oh, he’s back, God help London’s criminals.” John chuckled, heading for the end of the street to catch a taxi, “Bye, Clara! Good luck with the Wicked Witch.”

“Bah, I’ve got a handle on ‘er. Don’t worry about us, love! Let me know what happens, alright?” Clara waved, watching him walk away, “And don’t be such a fucking stranger, John Watson! We’re family!”

“Sorry, Clara, my fault! I’ll be in touch, promise!” He would be happy to talk to Clara anytime, for any reason. Lunch some afternoon they were both free, maybe dinner somewhere low-key. Leaving behind his sister’s flat, grateful he’d never had to go inside it, John called a taxi on South End Road by Hampstead Heath Station. When the taxi arrived, he got in and gave the driver the address Sally had texted him. Once underway, John took the box from his pocket and studied it. Clara had wrapped it in blue paper, but not so much he couldn’t get a look at the contents. Carefully unwrapping the box, he opened the box and sighed with relief when he saw the ring-set. Removing the wedding-band, he tucked it into an interior pocket for safe-keeping and closed the box again, rewrapping the whole lot and putting it back in his pocket. When he got to the scene, he paid the fare and put the box in a safe inside pocket so he wouldn’t lose it.

-&-

John had his chance to leave the box for Sally two hours later. She had stepped out of her office for something, Sherlock had gone off to play at Saint Bart’s, Molly had new bodies to play around with and had invited him over to join her, and John was by himself. Finishing his reports, he put them down in a neat file and put the box on top. She’d see it when she got back. Leaving her office, he pulled the door closed just enough no one would bother going inside. Hunting Sally down was easy, she was in Greg’s office. Grinning, he poked his head around the corner.

“Oi.”

“Leaving?”

“Yep. Pretty sure Sherlock’s staying out of trouble, he was for Saint Bart’s when he left here.” He shrugged, “Did my bit, off home for me.”

“Thanks for helping out.” Sally hugged him tight, “You were amazing with that little girl.”

“I’m good with kids.” He rolled his eyes, “Other people’s kids, not sure I could ever have my own.”

“Lord, you and me both! I like being able to give them back at the end of the day.” Sally shook her head quickly. It was one thing they both agreed on. Kids were not necessary for the happiness of their relationship, not to mention their lifestyles weren’t exactly fit to raise a child. Now, that didn’t mean they weren’t allowed to change their minds on the subject, it just wasn’t something they were really all that interested in at the moment. On the other side of the desk, Greg snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Oh please. For all the posturing the two of you get up to about kids, I’m pretty sure you’d be fantastic parents.”

“Kind of have to get married first.”

“Well, then you two better get on that, hadn’t you?” An eyebrow went up and John wondered how many betting pools there were about this very subject.

“Yeah, yeah, you can just put the brakes on that and wait, sir.” John made a dismissive gesture, “When we’re damn good and ready, not before.”

“Waiting for you two to get around to it is almost worse than waiting for Sherlock to make up his bloody mind about you!”

“And we’re still not sure where falls on the spectrum, are we?”

“Somewhere in the middle of the Gray/Ace spectrum, I’d guess.”

“Probably, knowing him.” John shrugged and pushed away from the door, “Well, I’ve gotta get back to Baker Street. See you after work?”

“Yep. Hopefully before midnight.” Sally saw him out, held the door of the taxi for him, and stood on the kerb until they cleared the block. It was a quiet drive back to Baker Street, and John worked The Blue Scarf until close. Saying goodnight to Mrs Hudson, who seemed to be in a particularly good mood, John went upstairs. Sherlock was still out and Sally hadn’t gotten home from the office yet.

He checked on 221C and found it finished. He was impressed with the place, it had gone from a damp, typical basement-flat to something perfectly liveable. And most of it, he was proud to say, was his work. He, Sally, and even Sherlock had done most of the work themselves. Mycroft had been in charge of coordinating things, leaving the manual labour to those better suited to it. Greg had even helped out on evenings and weekends he had off, and now it was all done. The sitting-room and kitchen of 221B were still free-use among all of the tenants, but now John and Sally had their own space to go to after they'd had their fill of Sherlock. The only things they had moved down from 221B were clothes. Books remained in the upper flat, as did any case-files being processed either for private cases or for Met cases. And for a basement-flat, there was an awful lot of natural light. It felt cosy and John was impressed.

Before going back upstairs, he caught sight of something on the coffee-table in their little sitting-room. John studied the little package, wrapped carefully in blue paper. It looked an awful lot like the little package he’d left on Sally’s desk, almost identical. Curious and cautious, he picked it up and turned it over. Was she  _home_? He hadn’t seen her upstairs. He hadn’t really gone into the bedroom. Holding the box in one hand, he looked up.

“Hey, Sal?” He called quietly, “You home?”

“John?” She poked her head out of the bedroom, smiling when she saw him, “Hi! Thought that was you I heard.” Typical, he’d missed her coming home. Again.

“What’s this, then?” he held up the box in question. She looked at it and he saw something in her eyes. “I left this for you on your desk.”

“I know. I know what that is.” She came out, he noticed she was still in her work clothes. “Yours for mine.” So she wasn’t turning him down, she just wanted to do this…differently. Right then.

“Yours?” He raised an eyebrow, and she held out a small box wrapped in white paper.

“It’s…not much.” She offered the box to him, and they traded boxes. John wondered if this was what he thought it might be, and before he opened his after removing the white paper, he reached for the chain around her neck. He had given Sally a copy of his identification tags for Christmas the second year they had been dating, and she wore them constantly. A boot-tag chain had held her grandfather’s wedding-ring for some while, he had rescued it once from an MPU cutter and returned it to Sally, hoping she would be a bit more careful with something so valuable. He knew her grandparents but had never met them properly. The second boot-tag chain, and the ring, were missing from the tags. John smiled and opened the box in his hand. Sure enough, there was Samuel Donovan’s wedding-ring. It had been cleaned and resized at some point. 

“Oh, John.” Sally had gotten her box open and seen his mother’s ring. “Where did you get this?”

“I had to do some pretty asking and deal with my sister. Worth the trouble, though. That was my mum’s ring.” He was saving the wedding-band for later. 

“It’s beautiful.”

“Might’ve been the only part of her that was, to be honest.” He watched her take the ring out of the box, “Whatever we do, Sal, my family is not invited.”

“Oh, don’t say that. They can’t be all that bad, can they?” Sally fit the ring to her hand, and John realized that he had been preempted. Not only had Clara hidden the ring from Harry, she had taken it to be cleaned and resized just as the ring Sally had given him had been.

“You never met my sister, did you?”

“Harry?” Sally narrowed her eyes, “No, I don’t think I’ve met her. You’ve spoken of her plenty, never very well.”

“We didn’t get along very well after she came out. Blamed _me_ for the way Mum and Da treated her, said I snitched on ‘er and outed her to them because I was a mean little brother. I didn’t do a thing, she did it herself.” John shrugged, “You’ll meet her…eventually. She’s fine when she’s sober, not so much when she’d gone ‘round the bend on a binge.”

“I’m so sorry, John. It’s had when it’s family, isn’t it?”

“Why do you think I worry so much about Sherlock?” He pointed at the ceiling in emphasis.

“Does she tell you it’s none of your business if she’s sober or drunk and to bugger off and mind your own business anyway?”

“Regularly. We don’t talk much because she only calls if she needs something. I hang up when she drunk-dials me. It’s a good thing her wife was home, that’s the only reason I got away with that ring in my pocket, she’d hid it from Harry so it wouldn’t get sold.”

“She wouldn’t!”

“Absolutely.” He took Sally’s hand, “Keep this safe for me, please? Wear it on the boot-tag chain if you have to, but please…”

“I’ll keep it safe, John. It’s beautiful.” Sally studied the ring, “What is it, exactly?”

“That’s a Queen Mary Luckenbooth ring. Dad gave it to Mum when they were kids. I think she was eighteen when they got engaged. They married a year later.”

“They married pretty young, didn’t they?”

“Mum was pregnant with Harry. They didn’t want to risk anything.”

“God.”

“Dad wasn’t that bad, really. It was Michael who made all the trouble.”

“What happened to your dad, John?”

“He was in the Army, it’s a big reason why I went in once I was old enough.” He had been three when David Watson was killed in Northern Ireland during The Troubles. His mother had remarried far too quickly for either John or Harry’s liking, and things had been rocky ever since.

Michael Fentley had been nothing but trouble and had run Harry out of the house when she came out as a lesbian at eighteen. John, not entirely straight himself, had struggled with a massive sexual identity crisis most of his life that had gotten worse at uni and levelled out in the Army. He was bisexual, preferred women, but wasn’t above tumbling a handsome bloke if the opportunity presented itself. That was as good as gay in his house, so John had played it straight until he was no longer under his step-father’s shadow. He figured David probably wouldn’t have cared either way, would have adored Sally and Sherlock, given ‘em grief about things and told John to behave himself. Be a gentleman.

“I’m sorry you had such a terrible childhood, I thought mine was bad.” Sally took his hand as they sat on the couch together.

“It’s not like you knew. I never said, did I?”

“I guess not.” Sally shrugged, “I will never ask you to reconcile with toxic family-members, God knows I have my share. But my brother died when I was in the academy, had a habit that made Sherlock’s look like child’s play. Found him under a bridge in the middle of December with his throat slit. They took his wallet, his clothes, killed him, tied him up, and threw him in the river.”

“Oh my god, Sally.”

“It made me want to be better at everything, so I could bring someone else’s family justice because we couldn’t get any for mine.”

“Ever?” John was horrified. He’d seen _plenty_ of similar deaths working with Sherlock, God knew it, but hearing it from someone close to him, dear to him, was sickening.

“No, we did…eventually.”

“Oh, thank god.” He took her hand, “Did you solve it, then?”

“Nope. Sherlock did. Took me forever to figure out he’s the one who’d solved it, no one else in the department was getting anywhere and we get this anonymous tip about…seven years ago, names and everything. So we go out, find this place, proper rat-hole it was, full of the worst scum of London’s underbelly. But, we got ‘em. Hanging around the line was this ratty-looking piece of work kept asking all these questions, giving us names of people we’d pulled out of there. If we said yes, he listed off every crime ever committed, and how long he thought they should go away for. We just ran ‘im off, told him to get lost before he ended up part of the round-up.”

“Sounds like Sherlock. Why’d you hate him so much?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Really?” He had to ask because whatever else lay behind them, Sally and Sherlock were proper friends now. “What’s stupid?”

“He turned me down.” She looked so insulted by the mere memory of it that John stifled a laugh.

“Wait a minute. He…what?”

“Oh, you heard me!”

“Wait a minute! Sally, you didn’t actually proposition Sherlock Holmes, did you?”

“It was New Years, I was drunk, out with friends on the town, and I meet this handsome bloke in a bar. Tall, handsome, voice like velvet.” She sighed wistfully, “Shame he didn’t have much in the way of manners, but he was nicer to me than anyone else had been. Him, I wouldn’t mind kissing at midnight.”

“Sherlock Holmes was your Midnight Kiss! Oh, you lucky prick!” John curled up and giggled, “Oh, my god! What happened?!”

“Well, it was one hell of a fucking proper Midnight Kiss, did you know he’s a phenomenal kisser?”

“Yeah, might’ve known that about ‘im.” John couldn’t stop smiling or giggling. This was almost too good to be true. From family histories, bad memories, and now he was getting the slim on why Sally had just despised Sherlock for so many years. “You must’ve been a sergeant.”

“Yep. Brand new to the rank, not the force. Well, after a very proper Midnight Kiss the likes I’d never gotten before, or sadly since until you and I started dating, he took me home after I asked sweetly. Wouldn’t have taken him for a gentleman, anyone else I dragged home that night would’ve thrown me into bed and done their business and then taken off again. He didn’t.”

“So much for Ace.”

“Middle of the spectrum with that one. It’s not his favourite thing to do, but he’ll go for a round or two if the partner’s right.”

“Yep.” John grinned. He’d been lucky enough to tumble Sherlock a time or two after a successful case or just to get his mind back on track when he got too strung-out while bored. John had cleared the flat the first week he moved in and kept the place spotless ever since one rather awful night he’d ended up calling 999 and requesting an ambulance. Sherlock hadn’t spoken to him for a month, but he figured it was a fair price to pay to have his flat-mate alive.

“So, he followed you home, you said thank you, kind sir, come to my bed, and he said?”

“No thank you, ma’am, you can’t give me your consent.”

“Even though you’d already practically done just that?”

“Yep. Said it wasn’t right to have sex with me because I was drunk and not in my right mind to consent, I would probably regret it in the morning. He put me to bed, took care of me, and was gone by morning. I don’t remember him telling me no because I couldn’t rightly consent, and I got into my head that he’d turned me down because he was too good for the middle-class likes of a struggling police sergeant trying to make a difference in a hateful world. I never forgave him.”

“You never forgave Sherlock for doing the right thing?” John covered his mouth with one hand, “Sally Donovan, you are ridiculous. You apparently did forgive him, though.”

“Oh, I did, after I met you.” She rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb, “Took me a while, but I figured if _you_ could handle him, if you saw something, maybe I owed him another shot. I don’t regret forgiving him, he’s a very good friend and a priceless resource.”

“Still good at running laps around the rest of us on a scene and making Anderson obsolete,” John smirked and turned their hands over. Sally decided a celebratory beer was in order and raided the little mini-fridge unit tucked into the mother-in-law kitchen they had in 221C. 

“What do you suppose our quiet night in will be interrupted by work?” John asked when she got back to the couch, taking one of the two bottles she brought back with her.

“Ten quid.”

“You’re on.” He got comfortable.

It was quiet for an hour before the street-door slammed open.

“Greg?”

“Nah. Sherlock.” Sally shrugged, “In a bit of a hurry, too.”

“Case, then.” John rolled his eyes and waited as footsteps thundered up to 221B. Three. Two. On-

“John!”

“One.” He chuckled and got up, picking up their empty bottles, “There it goes.”

“John! Sally!”

“Downstairs, Sherlock! Be right there!” Sally called up the stairs as she collected their coats. Taking his coat, John made sure he had his phone, wallet, and gun before he followed her upstairs. They met Sherlock pacing in the foyer, tugging on his hair, eyes wild.

“Oh, good! There you are! Come on!”

“Going where, Sherlock?”

“Brixton!”

“Well, fine. Not helpful, is he?”

“Were you expecting otherwise?” John shook his head and looked over his shoulder, “Sorry about the ruckus, Mrs Hudson! Case on, be back later!”

“Oh, well do be careful, will you?” She popped her head out, “Don’t go getting into any kind of trouble, hear?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson.” John waved at his landlady and followed Sally out to the street. Greg waited by his car, on his phone with someone. When he saw them, he nodded.

“Follow us in.” He said quietly, covering the receiver with one hand. John nodded and headed for Sally’s car. He thought of something and turned around.

“Hey, Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you have any bets going at The Met?”

“Bets going?” He looked a little confused, but John just cocked an eyebrow.

“Did you have any bets regarding how, when, and who about a proposal between them, Lestrade. Do pay attention.” Sherlock said smugly, “I’m fairly certain you earned quite a handsome sum, if I’m not mistaken.” Of course Sherlock knew. Hadn’t even paid them half a glance and he knew. Of course, he _had_ been involved with the planning process on Sally’s end of things. Greg’s eyes widened and John looked over the roof of Sally’s car and grinned at his fiancée.

“Wait a minute!” Greg looked at them, trying to piece it together, “You two didn’t actually…”

“We absolutely did.” John tossed off a quick wave with his left hand and ducked into Sally’s car, “See you in Brixton, Greg!”

“Jesus Fucking…Markson! You owe me twenty quid! Pay up, I’ll collect when I get there! Tell Anderson to pony up his bit, the wanker owes me sixty!” Greg was yelling into his phone as he got into his car and they got underway.

“Well, that’ll get the word around pretty quick, won’t it?”

“And it’s none of their fucking business which of us asked first because we asked at the same time.” Sally gauged traffic and pulled out behind Greg’s car. It took them thirty minutes to get to the scene in Brixton, they parked behind Greg’s car just past the line and ignored everyone who wanted to ask questions.

As they geared up just inside the abandoned house, giving John eerie echoes of the very first case he had ever worked with Sherlock, Greg decided thirty-two minutes was quite long enough to wait and grabbed him by the wrist.

“Alright, you smug little bastard! Let me see that!”

“Not like we were trying to hide anything from you, was it, Greg?”

“Oo-ee, that’s a nice piece! Where’d you get that, then?”

“Sally’s grandfather.”

“Nice work! She ask first?”

“Nope, we asked at the same time. Traded boxes, traded rings, and did some talking.”

“Pity you didn’t do a bit more than talk.” Greg looked almost disappointed they hadn’t interrupted more than a heart-to-heart between John and Sally.

“Nah, that’ll happen later. Now that C’s all done up, we don’t have to worry about distracting His Highness.”

“I never said you were a distraction,” Sherlock said primly.

“Well, you never said it was fine with you, either. Jealous bastard, just ask, alright?”

“Who said I was jealous?” The boffin looked almost insulted. “You’re happy, she’s happy, and I got another solid lead for cold cases when our bit runs thin.”

“Oh, please.” John rolled his eyes, “You’ve been using her as an in for cold cases since you got _back_.”

“So?”

“Alright, kids, be nice. We’ve got a job to do.” Greg scolded, “And the sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can all go home for the night.” John shared a look with Sally and Sherlock and they headed for the bedroom containing the crime-scene. It was pretty standard, far as a murder went, but just interesting enough to engage Sherlock. Once Sherlock had worked his magic and wowed the Yarders, it was back to the office to get their reports done and then it was off home.

-&-

John fell asleep that night in the warm, comfortable dark of the bedroom in 221C with Sally in his arms, staring at the ring she had given him and admiring not only the history behind it but the courage it had taken for her to _ask_ him. The words had never actually been said, but the answer had unflinchingly been yes. It was a simple band, silver it looked to him, engraved only with an infinity symbol. It worked for him. They were both unpretentious people, the rings they had exchanged were perfect for their causes. He was glad Sally could wear his mother’s Luckenbooth ring, it had been sitting unused and unloved for so long. Maybe he should call his mother and tell her they’d finally done something with her ring? She had gotten better in the past few years, but calling was always a gamble. Either she was in a good mood or a scathing rage. There was no middle-ground. Well, worry about that later. He had plans to make for the future.

* * *

 


End file.
